Suitcase of Memories
by Sensue
Summary: Brotherhood AU. Ch.13 and 14 are now posted. Ch.13: Missing scene from Ridley's Legacy story "Ties that Bind". Ch.14: Caleb and Sam must support Dean when he needs it the most.
1. Welcome Home, Son

**Suitcase of Memories**

- **Author:** Sensue  
- **Summary:** Brotherhood AU. Memories of the good times and the bad times shared by the Brotherhood. Mainly focuses on Caleb Reaves and Mackland Ames. Tags and missing scenes to several Brotherhood stories.  
- **Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural: the series or either of the two hot guys in it. Wish I did, especially Jensen Ackles. The Brotherhood AU was developed by Ridley C. James and Tidia. Title from song lyrics: Time After Time.  
- **Rating:** TV-14

_**Chapter Note**__: Methodology and history is based on current Brotherhood AU stories. I will try to credit sources as I write, but please note that I do not mean any disrespect or want to step on anyone's toes. I just love the stories, and wanted to add my own little 'angst-fest' to a few of the stories, plus add some of my own ideas of the character's history. I truly hope you enjoy the stories. Each chapter will be a 'memory' or one-shot of the Brotherhood AU. (At least, I say that now…LOL.)_

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**Chapter One: Welcome Home, Son.**  
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_missing scene from Stranded By Williamson Scott_

_1983 – New York City.  
Dr. Mackland Ames' Apartment._

Dr. Mackland Ames slowly walked over to the guestroom where his charge, for lack of a better term, was now sleeping. He winced slightly as the bedroom door creaked open; he'd been trying to keep quiet as to not wake the traumatized young man.

Quietly, he'd walked over towards the bed and stared down at him. Caleb Reaves was a twelve year old boy going on forty and, amazingly, could render him speechless in a way that only his father seemed to be able to. Reaching out, he'd brushed a stray hair away from the pale face, before resting his palm against his forehead for a minute before pulling up the covers that had slipped off.

Thankfully, the young man slept soundly—hopefully, Mackland thought, he would get through the night without any problems. Mac rubbed his chin thoughtful: how had Caleb wormed his way into his home? Into his heart in such a short period of time?

There had been no question in his mind that he would take the boy home with him after he'd helped him off the ground where Daniel Elkins had pinned the boy with his demonic traps.

Caleb had joked, "What took you so long?" He'd coughed out; his breathing ragged as he'd tried to regain his equilibrium. He'd joked back that he'd ran into a cute gift shop attendant and was rewarded with a smile.

Underneath the smile, Mac detected his feelings of surprise and shock. Caleb had obviously thought that no one was going to save him; that no one had worried that much about him to care whether he lived or he died. Caleb had trusted him enough to allow him to sit and talk with him at the hospital; but the young man had been through so much in his short life. Adults and figures of authority had always let him down and, while he trusted the good doctor to read to him, he was still unsure about him keeping his promises. It broke his heart; he wanted Caleb's complete trust, but knew that he would have to work to earn it.

He'd helped him sit up, completely mindful of the fact that Caleb was now trembling, adrenaline had run its course, leaving behind a frightened child. He'd blocked Elkins's body with his own as he assisted him onto his feet, leaving the bastard he'd cold-cocked behind.

Slowly, they'd both walked together toward an empty hospital room. He'd helped Caleb lie back onto a bed, before giving him a quick check-up. Efficiently, he'd listened to his heartbeat and his lungs—making sure that the attack hadn't had any lasting _physical_ damage. He promised himself that he would help Caleb get through the emotional and mental issues the attack, and the Reaves family history surrounding it, would undoubtedly cause.

Throughout it all, he'd smiled, joked, and tried his best to keep the both of them calm. There weren't many times in his life where he'd felt such anger towards someone—but he'd wanted nothing more than to go back and beat Elkins to high hell. Only the man's status within the Brotherhood and Caleb's presence kept him from doing so.

Caleb smiled back, shakily. His trembling eased slightly as he'd listened to the older man's lame attempts of levity. He'd allowed the doctor to listen to his heart and lungs, even though he had already told him that he felt better.

Mac pulled the stethoscope out of his ears, then patted Caleb's chest softly in comfort. He'd moved to stand, "I'm going to see if I can get you moved to a more secure room."

"No." Caleb's shout startled them both. "Please, no. Don't leave."

Mac moved in closer, once again sitting on the edge of the bed. He'd reached out to grasp the young man's hands, shocked as he felt their coolness against the warmth of his skin. "Caleb, it's alright. You're okay. You're safe here." He rubbed their hands together slowly, trying to gain his attention and to share his warmth.

Caleb's face blanched and the trembling from before returning with a vengeance. "Please, Mac. Don't leave me here. Please…you have to help me. I don't want to stay here anymore. Please…" The fear, stress, and the sadness that he was feeling was clear; reducing the teen to tears—sobbing quietly as he begged for help. Mac wrapped his arms around him, rocking him slowly and rubbing his back in small gentle circles.

"Caleb," he whispered, "I promise, I'm going to help you." He waited until Caleb started calming before slowly pulling away. Pulling out an old handkerchief, he gently wiped the boy's face. Caleb's chest heaved under the strain; clearly, Caleb was now waiting for his next move.

Mac stood and started pacing the room. His movements were being followed like a hawk; Caleb's eyes pierced through him in a way he'd never experienced before. From the moment they'd met, they'd formed an instant connection. Caleb was able to psychically call out to him, distance be damned. Perhaps this boy was a kindred spirit? And even now, he felt him pleading for help.

Abruptly, he stopped pacing. A slow smile formed across his lips, startling the pre-teen. A confused expression appeared on his face as he watched the doctor pick up the phone to call someone.

"Martin," Mac started, "Could you please call Judge Baker? Yes, I know that she's probably sleeping at this moment. No, the medical power of attorney is too basic. I want to take Caleb home with me, _tonight_. Perhaps an emergency foster agreement? Until a hearing can be arranged? No, I will not wait! He's coming home with me tonight, so I truly don't care who you have to wake, Martin. Just do it. Call me when everything has been arranged. I'll start the discharge paperwork here. Alright, thank you, Martin. You're truly your weight in gold." The doctor gave a small chuckle as he hung up the phone.

"What was that?" Caleb asked, hope warring with confusion.

"You said that you wanted to get out of here, yes?" He waited for him to nod. "Well, I'm going to take you home with me, tonight. I have a large apartment and I rarely have guests..." He let his voice trail off as he watched the boy absorb the information.

"Did I speak out of turn? Would you rather stay—."

"No." Caleb interrupted, "I just…you'd let me stay with you? For how long?"

Mac licked his lips, then brushed his mustache with his fingers. "Well, for now, I suppose you would stay with me until the judge grants a hearing. A few days or so…"

"Oh," Caleb's eyes closed, shuttering his emotions. "Well, thanks, you know, for taking me in."

Mac stared at the young man, not knowing why he'd suddenly felt as if he'd let him down, somehow. "You're welcome, son." He pointed towards the door, "I'm just going to get the paperwork settled, so that we can go."

Caleb waited until the door closed behind him, before allowing the disappointment to show on his face. He wiped angrily at his eyes, "Of course, he wouldn't want to keep you…who the hell would want to? You're a screwed up freak, Reaves. And no one wants to keep a screwed up kid. They never do." He wanted to cry, to just hide under the covers and disappear. He'd done the one thing that he'd promised himself that he wouldn't. He'd started to hope…

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A couple hours later, Dr. Ames led his new foster son towards his car. Pastor James (Jim) Murphy was already behind the wheel, and gave the boy a huge smile in welcome. Caleb was quickly settled in the backseat of the car, while Mac road shotgun.

Pastor Jim used the rearview mirror to observe him. "Are you alright, my boy?" The boy was sullen, quiet—staring out the window sadly.

"I'm fine, Pastor Jim. Just tired," Caleb faked a yawn. "Don't worry about me. I promise that I won't be in the way. I'll probably just go to bed and stay out of your hair."

The two men looked at the other trying to decipher his words. Mac turned in his seat to stare at him. "Caleb. You're not 'in our hair'. You're welcome into my home. I want you to feel comfortable…if you need something, just ask. Pastor Jim is going to be staying with us for a few days. His flight to Kentucky—Jim owns a small farm there—it was delayed, so I've invited him to stay with us until that time. But there's plenty of room, you won't even have to share." He'd said the last part with a smile, trying to inflect some excitement in his voice.

Caleb gave a small smile back, forcing it. "It sounds like fun." The words ended up sounding sarcastic.

Mac turned back in his chair, blinking back astonishment. Could he have been wrong about Caleb wanting to stay with him?

"Well, the first thing that I'm planning on doing is making my famous tuna noodle casserole. I don't know about the both of you, but I could surely eat a horse right now." Pastor Jim laughed, "Caleb, my boy, there's just something about a home-cooked meal that just brightens up any day. And then, of course, there's desert. I make a mean homemade pudding, if I do say so myself."

Mac smiled, "I've heard about your skill in the kitchen, Jim…but haven't had the pleasure yet." He looked back at Caleb, "I think we're in for a treat, Caleb. Pastor Jim doesn't cook for just anyone."

There was no response from the backseat, just a twelve year old boy clutching a gift copy of "The Three Musketeers" and tracing patterns on his deuce card tucked inside. The only memento left of his broken family.

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Mackland turned the key to the door with a soft click, trying to be mindful of the neighbors and the late hour. He'd reached out for Caleb, guiding him inside gently with a hand against his back until he could reach the light switch. Light flooded through his home as the three of them entered.

He'd been expecting the boy to look around, perhaps even to explore his new surroundings. Caleb was unpredictable, instead choosing to squint at his feet. Pastor Jim motioned towards the kitchen, asking permission to cook them a meal. "Please, Jim, make yourself at home. You too, Caleb."

Caleb didn't move or speak. Mac took in a breath, moving closer to him. "Caleb? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mac." He didn't look at him at all.

Mac rubbed his chin, wanting to know why he'd suddenly become so cold…perhaps he _was_ tired. "Do you want to go wash up? The bathroom is right over there. The towels are in the cabinet next to the sink." He indicated towards the left corner of the room. He watched him walk away, confusion and concern were on the forefront of his mind.

"Mackland?" Jim called him over to the kitchen. "Would you mind terribly if you could hand me a casserole dish? I'm almost done here." Mac watched the pastor turn off the stove under a pot of boiled noodles.

Mac walked over to the kitchen island and pulled out a dish from the cabinet, then handed it to Jim. He watched quietly as the man drained the noodles, then combined it with mayonnaise, chopped vegetables, a can of tuna fish, and cream of mushroom soup. He'd mixed the ingredients until it was smooth, then placed his concoction in the pre-heated oven.

"We should have a warm meal in no-time, Mackland." He smiled at the younger man, "You're doing a wonderful job with him…you should know that."

Blinking up at the older man, Mac couldn't help but question, "Am I? He doesn't seem happy to be here, Jim."

"I think that he needs time, Mackland. Time and stability. Be patient with him; I have a feeling that boy will surprise all of us. He has such remarkable strength for a young man his age." Pastor Jim was incredibly insightful; he hadn't spent too much time with Caleb, yet somehow knew exactly who he was.

Twenty minutes later, Caleb walked back in; wearing the same clothing he'd previously worn. He looked clean now, his hair now damp after a quick shower, yet he seemed to be almost depressed.

Jim was exuberant, even at such a late hour. "Caleb, my boy, you're just in time. Dinner is served." He motioned both of them to sit at the table, while he served the piping hot casserole. He handed each person a dish before serving himself. "Well? Aren't you going to taste it?" He smiled at Caleb.

Caleb nodded, picked up a fork and started eating slowly. "It's really good, thanks." The inflection in his voice truly didn't match his words.

Mac settled in, eating the meal that the kind Pastor had made. "Jim, this is delicious. I think we're going to need to invite you over more. I'm afraid my talents lie in other areas, and definitely not in the kitchen. This will have to go in my favorites, as far as casseroles go. I love the mushroom flavor. How about you, Caleb?"

Caleb started looking around the kitchen area, "I don't know…I guess I'm more of a hamburger type of guy."

Jim nodded, "Well, perhaps the next time I visit, the three of us could have ourselves a barbeque."

Mac watched as Caleb's face fell, he dropped the fork and it fell on the floor with a clatter. He started rubbing his face as if he were in pain.

Later, Mac would truly have no recollection of how he got up and stood behind him; instinct to blame on his immediate reaction. "Caleb?" He put both of his hands on the boy's shoulders, the tension under his hands made the muscles feel as if they were rocks.

"I just have a headache. I'm sorry—," his voice started cracking slightly. He was gasping slightly, his breathing even and harsh. "I didn't want to be any trouble." And he certainly didn't want to listen to the pastor make plans that he wouldn't even be around for.

Pastor Jim sat watching in worry, his eyes meeting the doctor and asking without words if they needed help. Mac nodded once, before returning all of his energy and attention to the young man in front of him.

Jim stood, taking the phone into the other room where Mac assumed he was making a few phone calls, therefore leaving the two alone in the kitchen.

Mac stood behind Caleb's chair, his hands still resting on his shoulders and the back of the chair was pressed against his abdomen. He guessed the cause of the headache, but didn't want to assume. "Caleb, where does it hurt? Can you show me?" He pointed to his temples, ear, and forehead. "Caleb, you know that I am a doctor, right? Well, my specialty is the brain, so I know of a few tricks that might help you feel better…if you're willing to trust me?" He spoke softly, not wanting to scare him.

He waited a minute, until Caleb nodded. "Okay."

Gently, he placed his hand on Caleb's forehead and pushed his head back until it rested against his chest. "Okay. The first part is really simple," he spoke softly, "you rest your head back and you slowly breathe in, pause, then breathe out through your nose. When your neck is extended, it makes it easier for you to breathe…" Mac coached his breathing for a few minutes until he could do it on his own. The muscles under his hands were still rigid, as if he were afraid.

"I'm not going to hurt you, son…I promise." Caleb's hands clenched into fists, but he nodded. He pulled Caleb's hands away from his face, then smoothed the crease that marred his forehead, and stroked his face. Gently, he pressed down using the pads of his thumbs against the tension along his face: under his eyes, his temples, above his ears…where the pain seemed to originate. "Next step. I want you to relax the muscles in your face and jaw." He placed his hands along his jaw, and just slightly pulled down, wanting him to stop clenching his teeth. "But, don't forget to keep breathing…"

He kept this up for another minute, before moving on. "Now, you're going to do the same with your neck." He rubbed the area in question, making small adjustments in Caleb's position until he felt the muscle relax under his touch. "Now, your shoulders. There's no need to put the weight of the world on them. Just relax."

Caleb gave a small laugh at that, but followed his instruction after a few minutes of continued coaching. He moved his way down to his arms, wrists, and fingers until they were relaxed. Placing a hand along the boy's chest, he directed him on how to breathe and relax. "Just unclench your abdominal muscles now, and just let all tension go…all the way down to your toes."

It had taken a while, but Caleb was now completely relaxed. In fact, he was nearly asleep. "How's your headache? Feel better?"

"Much better," Caleb breathed. "What is this?" He was curious because it truly helped; his headache was nearly gone.

Mac kneeled down so that he was now eye to eye with him. He patted his knee and smiled up at him. "It's called the Buteyko Breathing Technique. Basically, it relaxes your muscles…the headache you had; it's called a tension headache. One of the causes is stress. When you relax and let go of the stress and tension in your muscles, it elevates the pain."

"Oh. Good to know…" Caleb nodded, blinking heavily.

"Do you want to talk to me? You seem anxious about something."

Caleb yawned, "Maybe later...I'm just really tired now. Could I just—go to bed? Please?"

Mac nodded, "Yes, of course. I'll show to you to your room. For now, you can borrow some clothes from me, until we have some free time to go shopping."

"Or until the stores actually open." Caleb cracked a joke.

"Yes. It is very early." He led him to the large guest room. Thankfully, he'd called ahead to his maid and she was kind enough to give it a quick clean. He pointed towards the door down the hall. "That's my room. I'll go get you something to change into. If you need anything, I'll be right down the hall. Don't be afraid to wake me."

He stepped out of the room, leaving Caleb to gaze around his new room. It was one of the largest rooms he'd ever had. And this was the man's 'guest' room. He could only imagine how large his own must be. The room was clean, clearly expensive looking, despite the bachelor feel of the furniture…but still there was something, a warmth, that made it feel like home.

Dr. Ames returned, slowly knocking on the door to announce his arrival, even though the door wasn't shut. "I always knock. It's polite." He smiled, handing over a pile of clothing. They looked new. Upon study, Caleb realized that some of them still had the tags. "I've never worn them. A few friends give them as gag-gifts, I believe you call them. They aren't my style, but perhaps you'll like them."

Caleb lifted a t-shirt, it was black with the words: Seduced by the Dark Side. He arched an eyebrow as he picked up a pair of black boxer shorts with skulls on them. The boy started laughing, "Yeah, I can't see you in these either. Thanks, Mac."

Mac laughed heartily, "You're very welcome, Caleb. Good night."

With that, he closed the door behind him and let the boy get some needed rest. He stopped for a moment, before reaching the living area to take a calming breath. He was fully composed as he stepped to meet the pastor.

He motioned to the man to have a seat on the couch, then sat across from him. "He seems to be doing better now, Jim."

"Good. I'm glad, Mackland. He seems afraid…"

"Yes, and he won't talk to me. I know that I can help, if he'd just let me."

Pastor Jim looked at him knowingly, "Perhaps, that's what he's afraid of."

Mac arched an eyebrow, "That's a bit cryptic, even for you."

Jim laughed, "I have every confidence in you, my friend. You'll figure it out." The man grew serious, "I called Child Protective Services to see if they could help us with Caleb. I talked to a man named Abraham Sullivan. He's Caleb's case worker. He was incredibly kind, and cares deeply for the boy. He's on his way…he wants to help."

"We only know the facts surrounding the Reaves family. The assumptions that Elkins made…weren't justified. The boy isn't a demon, Jim. He's not evil. He's just a boy that has had an incredibly horrific childhood. What the hell was Elkins thinking?"

"Elkins is the Knight. He's incredibly protective of the Brotherhood, but by any means, the man isn't perfect, Mackland. We'll handle Elkins. For now, you need to concentrate on Caleb. The boy—he's an incredibly powerful psychic, but there are many things that he needs to learn. Subtlety, one of them."

Mac grinned, "So that he doesn't stand out like a two dollar hooker? I agree. He needs to be taught. And he has to be protected."

"And I think that you're the perfect man to do so…you should adopt him."

Mac jerked back in surprise, "What? I'm sorry, will you repeat that?"

Pastor Jim just stared at him, "I said, you should adopt him. You've already taken him into your home. You obviously feel a connection to him, you want to protect him…or I am wrong?"

Mac sat up, pulling himself to the edge of the couch, now animated. "Jim, I don't know the first thing—."

Jim motioned him to stop with his hand, "If that was the case, what was that in the kitchen? Or in the hospital?"

"I was just reacting to the situation. He was upset."

Jim smiled, "And you comforted him…which is what a parent does."

Mac sat back against the cushions, rubbing his face with both hands. "I'm a bachelor, Jim. This isn't the type of place for a child."

"He's not a two year old, Mackland. He's nearly a teenager. He needs someone who understands him. And I think you understand him better than anyone."

The man stayed silent. His mind was whirring, overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"Let me just ask you one question, Dr. Ames. In a couple of days, you'll be standing before Judge Baker…and she'll ask you, 'why did you call me in the middle of the night to take the boy home?'"

"He asked me, Jim. He begged me."

"He asked you to take him home? To bring him here?"

"No." Mac swallowed, "He begged me for help. And that was the first thing I though of. Take him home. Keep him safe."

A soft knock on the door interrupted any further analysis.

Mac stood up, and walked to the door. A tall African American man stood by the doorway, looking unsure. "Are you Dr. Ames?"

Immediately, he held out his hand, "I'm Dr. Ames. Please, call me Mac. You must be Mr. Sullivan. Come in."

"Oh, please. Call me Abe." The man walked in to the apartment, clearly impressed by the size. They'd walked into the living area, Mac cordially made the introductions. "This is Pastor James Murphy, a family friend. Jim this is Abe Sullivan, Caleb's case worker."

"Very nice to meet you, Pastor. It was kind of you call me. I've been worried about Caleb." He looked around the area, "Where is he? Can I speak to him?"

Mac nodded towards the hall, "Caleb's asleep. I've given him one of the guest rooms. You can look in on him if you'd like…though, I would appreciate it if you would let him sleep. He's had a difficult and tiring day."

Abe nodded, following the doctor down the hall. He watched as the man quietly pushed the door open; he was surprised. The surprise must've shown on his face, because the doctor stared at him before motioning him to enter.

The case worker poked his head through the door, looking around at the room. It was large…larger than the room he shared with his wife. The boy was asleep; it made Abe happy to note that he was comfortable, and that the night terrors that constantly plagued the boy weren't apparent tonight.

The doctor walked in behind him, and he watched as the man gently checked his forehead for a fever, then pulled up the covers to make sure he was warm enough. It was—fatherly. And what was most interesting, Abe thought, was that Dr. Ames wasn't even aware that he'd done it.

Mac led him out, gently closing the door behind him and led him back out to the living area where Pastor Jim sat. "Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you. Please just join us. Don't worry about the formalities; after all it's almost three in the morning."

Pastor Jim laughed, "Truly, thank you for coming so quickly."

Sullivan relaxed on the couch, "It's not a problem at all, Pastor. I want to be here. So, how has he been with you, Dr. Ames—Mac?"

Mac sat back, "I'm not quite sure, I don't really have any frame of reference. I'm not very experienced with children."

Abe shared a look with Pastor Jim, as if to say, 'are you kidding me?' "Well, in my opinion, Caleb is doing exceptionally well under your care."

"Really?" Mac truly looked confused, he shot a look at Jim; trying to figure out if the man had been told to say that. "How do you know? He's just sleeping."

Abe laughed tiredly, "That's how I know. Caleb has a history of having severe night terrors, almost to the point of insomnia. Many nights, he just won't sleep for fear of having nightmares about the death of his parents. The fact that he's sleeping soundly on his first night in a new place, especially since the last few days have been—traumatic for him—well, it's incredible. How did you manage that?"

Mac and Jim looked at each other in shock, "Well, I had no idea about the nightmares. He was upset, so I talked him through a relaxation technique that I use to help some of my clients. It seemed to help him."

"No drugs?"

"No, none at all. Just breathing and relaxing muscles. I don't believe in over-medicating children. Can I ask you a question? You seemed surprised that he was sleeping prior to me opening the door."

"No, I was surprised that the door wasn't locked and bolted from the inside. Caleb doesn't trust easily; I've never been able to just walk into his bedroom before—he always locks the door. But he left the door open to you…"

"Caleb has never done that before?"

"I've been Caleb's case worker since his grandmother's death and I can safely say this is the first time that I've seen him take to someone. This is the first time that he hasn't tried to run away. Dr. Ames—Mac, I have to ask this," Abe sat up, pulled himself closer to the doctor, "what are your plans concerning Caleb?"

Mac took in a deep breath, "I don't know yet." He rubbed his jaw, sitting quietly for a few minutes, thoughtful. "Do you know what will happen to him?"

"Well, if you are not involved in his case, I would have to say, there is a serious possibility that he would be placed in a juvenile facility; and if he keeps up the rebellion against police officers, members of the court—he'll most likely end up in prison. The other possibility is that he'll commit suicide."

Mac's eyes closed tightly, wanting to block out the man's words. "God, help that boy…" he heard Pastor Jim pray. "Suicide?"

"I want to be completely honest with you, Dr. Ames. Caleb was put in the hospital because he tried to commit suicide. He grabbed a police officers gun and put it to his head; if I hadn't grabbed him when I did…" He let the rest of the sentence trail. "Caleb's a good kid. He's just—he didn't deserve anything that's happened to him. He thinks that the deaths of his parents, his grandmother, and now his foster parents are his fault."

"I know that," Mac inserted. "But it's not his fault. He just needs help."

"I agree, doctor. Unfortunately, and again, I'll be honest with you, the system that's in place—it won't help him. There are so many kids out there without homes that the ones who truly need help; they're overlooked. And a kid like Caleb—one that doesn't respect authority and goes out of his way to make trouble. It doesn't bode well for him. The judge is just about had it with him—."

"So, you're saying, that if I do nothing—he won't have a future."

"I wish that I could lie to you, Dr. Ames. I wish that I could tell you that he'll be fine. But he won't be. You're the only who's ever gotten though to that boy…If you turn him away, I think he'll self-destruct. _No_, I _know_ he will."

Mac looked into the man's eyes; there was no lie in them. He wasn't just saying things to make him feel guilty; if he didn't help Caleb, no one else would. "Why me? Why does he trust me?"

Abe smiled at him, "I wish I knew why. If I had the ability to figure that out, perhaps I'd be able to help more children. But he does trust you, and he obviously feels safe here. I watched you with him, while he slept—he's gotten to you, hasn't he?"

Nodding, Mac agreed. "Yes, he's definitely gotten to me. I just don't know what to do about it. It's a life-changing decision."

Abe had always been a straight forward type of man. It was required, especially in his line of work. "Yes, it is. But let me just ask this: Would you be able to live with yourself if you said no? If you don't want him here, I'm begging you to just let me take him _tonight_. I promise that I'll do my best to get the judge to give him another chance with a foster family. But please—don't lead the kid along in letting him think you want him. It'll only make things worse."

"I'm not leading him along, Mr. Sullivan. I just want what's best for him." Mac argued.

"What if you're what is best for him, Mackland?" Pastor Jim inserted. "That's the point that Mr. Sullivan is trying to make. The point I was trying to make."

The man sat silently for only a few seconds, the decision finally made in his mind. "Then I guess I'm going to have to get used to being a father."

Abe smiled, "Dr. Ames, I truly don't think it'll be as hard as you imagine. In my mind, you're already an amazing father. And I think the pastor would agree."

"I do," Pastor Jim stated, "I just think that Mackland could use a parental pep-talk every now and then."

"So, it's been decided, then? You'll take on Caleb permanently?" Abe asked, wanting verification.

"Yes, as long as there are no objections. I don't want to pressure Caleb into staying if he doesn't want to…" Mac stared at the case worker, who was shaking his head.

"Somehow, I don't think that will be an issue." Mac finally noticed him staring into the corner of the room.

He turned his head to see Caleb standing there, his eyes wide at the scene. The boy looked a little frightened. "What's going on? Why is Abe here?"

Mac stood, motioning for the boy to come over. "Come sit beside me, Caleb. Jim and I called Abe to discuss a few things."

"What things?" The boy was unsure; his eyes kept looking for an escape route.

Mac noticed and slowly walked over to him. Gently, he gave the boy a hug and wrapped his arm around his thin shoulders, pulling him over to the couch. "We were talking about you, and your future."

Caleb pulled away abruptly, "It's my life!"

Abe started to stand, when Pastor Jim shook his head; it wouldn't do to gang up on the boy. "Caleb," Mac was quiet, "I know that it's your life. It's why I want you to sit beside us and tell us what you want."

The boy blinked up at him, as if trying to decide if he was being tricked. "What I want? You care about what I want?"

Jim smiled sadly, "Of course we care about what you want, my boy. We want you to be happy."

Caleb relaxed slightly, and agreed to sit. "So what were you talking about?"

"Well, we were trying to figure out how you'd feel if I adopted you?"

His mouth flew open, and his hands started shaking. "What?"

"Caleb?" Mac was scared; this was not the reaction he'd hoped he'd get.

"Are you fucking with me?" His breathing was ragged—nearly hyperventilating. "You're being fucking serious?"

Abe quickly reached Caleb's side. "Kid, listen. If this is something you don't want, I can try to talk the judge into giving you another chance—."

Caleb reached out a shaking hand to touch Mac's face. "I'm not dreaming?" Tears were trailing down his face. "You want me?"

Mac finally understood. "No, you're not dreaming, son. Yes, I want you. I want you here with me. That is, if you'll have me?"

"But I'm screwed up?" Caleb looked up at him, not understanding why or how the man would want him in his life. "Everyone dies around me—my parents, my grandmother, even my foster parents."

Mac took the boy's hands in his own. "You're not screwed up, Caleb. You're like me. And their deaths are not your fault, son. If you don't believe anything else that I say, believe that."

"Why me?"

"I don't know. But I know that since the minute I've met you—I can't imagine my life without you in it. So, what do you say? Are you okay with this? Do you want to stay?"

The boy looked at everyone in the room before settling once again on the doctor's face. "I want to stay here with you. Please." Mac nodded, before wrapping the boy in a tight hug.

Abe stood up, a happy smile on his face. "Well, I don't think we should have any problems with the hearing…everyone is in agreement. So, I'll just let you folks have a good night and we'll setup a meeting with Bird in the morning to get all the details settled." Abe patted Caleb's head gently, "You picked a good one, kid. This one's a keeper. Now, you be good for him, huh? Keep out of trouble."

"I will, Abe. I promise." Caleb swore.

"I know you will." Abe waved, before shutting the door behind the new family. Walking over to the elevator, he leaned back against the wall as he waited. In his job, he'd seen so many atrocities and hardships that made him consider wanting to quit and become botanist.

And then there were days like this—days that made it all worth it.

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_Two days later…_

The hearing had gone off without a hitch, much to Judge Maria Baker's surprise.

And now, he had a son.

The thought brought a smile to Dr. Mackland Ames' face that was as bright as his son's.

They'd spent a day together, doing things that they'd both deemed father/son-ish. They'd gone to the park and played basketball together, had an incredibly unhealthy lunch—Mac let the boy get away with it just this once, after all they were celebrating and for the finale, went shopping for his new room.

Caleb was incredibly excited—decorating and buying posters, clothes that were 'cool' enough to go to school in. Mac's credit card had seriously taken a severe hit, but he knew that it was worth it. Just to see the smile on Caleb's face.

They'd brought everything home, then spent the rest of the day pinning up posters, moving furniture, and spending time getting to know each other. After they were done, Mac wrapped his arms around his son's shoulders and stared at the work they'd done together. Caleb was all smiles.

"Welcome home, son." He smiled back.

**-The End of Chapter One-**

_Author's Note: Well, what'd you think? This one-shot ended up being over 15 pages long. LOL._


	2. Surprise, You're a Grandpa!

_Author's Note:__ Thanks so much for the reviews. You are all amazing. I've tried to 'reply' to all of them.  
Please note, to those newcomers to the series. If interested, please visit "The Triad: Brotherhood AU fanlisting" for complete listing of stories, music videos, sites, and more. And if you're a fan, please sign up to be a member. (We've got 87 members now…we'd love it if we could get to 100! I know you're out there!)_

_**Chapter Note**__: This chapter is a 'missing scene' from the Brotherhood AU series, but this is inspired by __"My Hero is You" By Tara__. (Music Video), especially the lyrics: "I try to push you away but you never move." _

_**Chapter Summary**__: Mackland has a very bad day! And we learn a little more about our favorite grandpa. (I love Cullen Ames… he's so interesting. My favorite part is the fact that he spoils Caleb rotten.)_

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Chapter Two: Surprise! You're a Grandpa!  
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_  
1983 –New York City  
Home of Dr. Mackland Ames & Caleb Reaves_

Dr. Mackland Ames tiredly walked towards his front door. He'd had an incredibly exhausting day; his secretary had booked him solid for the entire morning; throughout the day, he'd met four patients who self-diagnosed brain tumors after having 'excruciating' head pain, which, after countless hours and unneeded testing, ended up being a migraine, an impacted tooth, and two cases of eye strain. The entire morning had been wasted lecturing his patients and their families on the dangers of practicing medicine without a license. He'd warned them to leave the diagnosis to trained medical professionals next time, but knew that they'd come back next month with a new ailment.

His afternoon was spent with a young couple whose three year old daughter had gone missing for over twenty-four hours. The police and FBI had been called in to help find the little girl, unfortunately with no success. Dr. Ames had arrived _just in time_ to help grandma carry the groceries and little Jenny inside. Little Jenny's mother apologized continuously for over an hour (in between tears of joy and fits of anger at her husband). Apparently, he'd forgotten that his mother volunteered to take her granddaughter for the weekend. Thankfully, the child was safe, warm, and back with her terrified parents. Mackland was relieved that he hadn't had to use his gifts to find her dead body—that was, until the genius police officers had told the parents that he was psychic. Grandma, of course, was excited; she'd wanted him to read her palm. He'd quickly made up an excuse, and ducked out before the woman forced all of her '_knowledge'_ of psychic power on him; already having been explained that she was a big fan of the Sylvia Brown church.

And now, he'd wanted nothing more than to go home, relax for a couple hours before spending the rest of the day with his son. He only hoped that Caleb had gotten through the day without any discipline or authority issues. The boy had only been with him for two weeks, and he'd already received two notes from his teachers about his attitude. He'd tried to convince the private school principal to give Caleb another chance, explaining that he needed time to adjust to the new surroundings; the woman didn't look impressed, but she'd agreed to give Caleb a _little_ more time to acclimate to the rules and regulations of such a prestigious preparatory academy. Mac walked Caleb out, a hand on his shoulder in warning before handing him a bucket to clean the spit balls he'd flung at the 'School Spirit' mural. As punishment, he grounded Caleb for a week for the stunt—earning him a glare, a slammed door, and an 'I hate you' that echoed throughout their apartment.

Afterwards, Mac sat at the kitchen table just staring at his hands, the 'I hate you' fresh in his mind. It had been a very difficult transition for them both. The first few days had been extraordinary. He'd taken a week off work in order to get Caleb settled into their new life together. Mac had made arrangements to send him to a college preparatory academy, instead of a public school. They'd gone shopping, re-arranged Caleb's new bedroom, purchased books, clothing, music, posters, decorations—everything a twelve year old boy could want. Mac put his foot down when Caleb had wanted a television in his room. There was only one television in the entire apartment, and it was only turned on for an hour a day. Mac tried to get him to understand that television wasn't conductive to a healthy mind and encouraged him to read instead. Caleb had nodded, smiled and agreed to his terms. They'd also setup simple rules for each other to follow, such as calling if they were delayed and knocking before entering. Things were going so well…

All of a sudden, Caleb returned to his previous ways—acting out, disrupting classes, finding ways to get into trouble. He'd tried to talk to him in order to understand why he was behaving in this unacceptable manner, instead Caleb proceeded to physically push him away; screaming at him to 'get out of his head' and 'leave him alone'. The boy would run to his room and slam the door—some days he wouldn't even come out for dinner. Mac would knock on the door, and find that Caleb was hiding under the covers, feigning sleep. Mac would pull up a chair and sit beside his bed; sometimes he would just talk to him about his day or read to him. And although Caleb never talked to him, Mac felt comfort in the fact that he was still listening.

The situation worried the doctor into calling Abraham Sullivan, Caleb's case worker, for help. The man was intelligent and obviously had superior experience with children like Caleb. After spending a few minutes alone talking with him; Caleb would come out of his room and promptly apologize. Mac would forgive him and the cycle would re-start the next day. Abe told him that Caleb was just 'testing the boundaries', trying to cause trouble _on purpose_ to see what he could get away with.

Pastor James Murphy would call nightly, to check on 'his boy' and, of course, had a theory of his own. He'd imagined that Caleb was afraid that Mac would change his mind about the adoption and kick him out…so instead, Caleb was creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. It made a certain sense to the doctor; if only he could figure out how to help him get passed this.

The only advice either of them could offer was to "stay strong" and not let him get away with it. That Caleb needed discipline and shouldn't be allowed to continue treating adults and figures of authority with such disrespect. He was trying his best—but it was exhausting. A couple weeks ago, he'd been a single young bachelor in his peak and now, he was a father to a troubled pre-teenager who hated him. Abe told him to be thankful that he hadn't tried to runaway yet. Mac just shook his head, it would be interesting to see the boy try—their psychic connection was incredibly strong. He always seemed to know where he was and, many times, felt that they could read each others minds. If Caleb truly wanted to runaway, he would need to learn how to shield his gifts; and much to Mac's dismay _and relief_, Caleb wasn't interested in learning about his abilities just yet.

Mac only hoped that this phase would end quickly. For one, it was dangerous for him to remain ignorant about his abilities. And two, he truly cared for Caleb and wanted them to be a family—he'd prefer that they didn't remain a dysfunctional one. Dr. Ames rest his head against the doorframe of the front door, trying to put his thoughts in order before turning the key and walking in. Immediately, his hand reached for the light switch, and as the room lit up, he noticed the man sitting at his kitchen table.

He walked in, quickly shutting the door behind him and then nearly ran to meet him. The old man was clearly upset, his face pale and he was wiping at his face with a familiar handkerchief, the one that his father had always kept with him—a gift given to him by wife on their wedding day.

"Dad?" Mac kneeled beside his chair and put his hand on his father's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "What happened? Are you alright?"

The old man stared directly into his son's eyes. "How could you, Mackland?"

Mac sat back on his heels, staring up at him in confusion. "How could I, _what_?"

Cullen Ames sat up, now towering over his son, who was still kneeling and staring up at him, open-mouthed on the floor. "I got a call from Martin Shores. You know, the family attorney? He was excited and asked me how you and your son were getting along! Imagine my shock, Mackland! I asked the man what he'd been drinking! My son, Mackland Ames has a boy? I said, 'no, no, you're mistaken. My son would've told me the news.' Martin was in shock. He didn't want to argue with me and apologized to me for 'spilling the beans'. So, what did I do? I came here! So, what do you have to say for yourself!"

Mac pushed himself into one of the kitchen chairs across from his father with a huff and gave his father a slight smile. "Surprise, you're a grandfather."

The older man rubbed the handkerchief as if it had some magical power to tell him what to say. He looked completely shaken. "Well, when do I get to meet the young lady? I mean, I assume you'll do right by her?"

Shaking his head, Mac tried to stop his father. "Dad, I'm not getting married—."

Cullen jumped out of his chair and started pacing, Mackland left to watch his father's tirade begin. "Well, of course you won't marry the poor girl! You've only _shamed her_ into having a child out of _wedlock_; and I know that it's the 80s, and that things aren't as 'old-fashioned' as they used to be, but have some decency, Mackland! I thought I taught you better than this. You need to take responsibility for your actions!"

Mackland bit his lip, every few seconds he tried to interrupt, but was ignored…so there was no point to trying to speak until old man had run out of steam. Mac knew his father—he was only just winding up.

Abruptly, he stopped his frantic pacing and whirled around to stare at his son. "Oh, my god. This is all my fault, isn't it? Everyone told me that I should re-marry after your mother, if only for your sake…but I couldn't bring myself to... And now—."

Mac stepped in front of him, hands out, "Dad, please, calm down. It's not your fault—you're misunderstanding the situation here."

Cullen shook his head, "How am I misunderstanding the situation?"

"He's not a baby, Dad! He's twelve years old!" Mac yelled, trying to get his father to listen to him.

It certainly stopped the older man in his tracks; his mouth flew open, which he quickly covered with a hand. "Oh, my god. _**I knew it!**_ I knew that you'd run rampant in that Medical School!" He turned around and started pointing fingers, arms flailing around as he became even more agitated. At that point, Mackland just flung his hands up in the air and sat back down. "You turned your back on the family business. 'Fine!' I said, 'as long as you're happy.' You rebel and changed your major from business to medicine. 'Fine.' I said—."

"Actually, I think you disowned me for the summer--." Mackland inserted.

The tirade continued as if nothing was said. "I watched you become this—this arrogant little BRAT who thought he was on top of the world just because he was a brain surgeon! You drank and you—you _**fornicated**_ with _loose_ _gold-digging _women. You spent all your time with people who'd only boost your ego!"

"Dad, please!"

"No, Mackland! I lived through all of this praying that you'd learn from your mistakes! That you'd eventually grow up into a man who I could be proud of. And after your accident," the memories made the older man shake, and he'd wiped the tears from his eyes. "After your accident, I was the only one who sat beside you, Mackland. I was the only one! Your _so-called_ friends—they left you for dead! I sat beside you for _three months_, praying you'd wake—that you'd still be my intelligent, sweet boy… even when the doctors had told me about the damage the accident had caused…" His voice broke, and he paused for several seconds trying to compose himself. "I had to help you learn to talk, walk again…"

In that time, Mackland took his father's hand and led him to sit across from him at the table. He held his hands tightly, "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm _so sorry_ that I put you through that. But it's over now. I'm not the same as I was back then…you know that. I'm working to make things better."

Cullen was shaken, "What did I do? Why didn't you tell me?" His hands flew to cup his son's face. "Are you mad at me? Have I done something wrong?"

"Shhh, Dad. No. It's my fault; I should've told you. But, it's been such a busy, difficult time--." Mac shook his head, "Still, it's not an excuse. I should've told you…"

Cullen pulled himself together somewhat, "Yes, you should have." He looked serious, "Well, tell about him." He waved his hand impatiently at his son.

Mac smiled widely, "His name is Caleb. He's this incredibly intelligent twelve year old boy. Even though he acts like an adult already. He's –uh—Well, I think you'd probably say that he's got spunk."

The front door slammed open, and the walking attitude sauntered in. "Hey, Mac. Who's got spunk?" He walked in, kicking his dirty boots in the corner, knowing full well that they were supposed to be placed in the closet—but wanting to get a rise out of his guardian. He threw down his backpack near the table, noticing the company. "Hey, who the hell are you?"

Mac's eyes widened, "CALEB!" Even Cullen looked appalled. "Where are your manners?"

"Gee, I'm sorry. Could you _please tell me_ who the _hell_ you are?" Caleb walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out the milk, then proceeded to drink directly from the carton. He closed the flap, returning the carton to the shelf, slammed the door shut, and then plopped down to sit beside the old man. "So, you gonna tell me or do I have to guess?" He arched an eyebrow at them.

Cullen stared at his son first, then turned towards his new grandson, and then back towards Mackland. "You know what, son? I think I'm going to enjoy this."

Caleb squinted at him, "Enjoy what?"

Cullen smiled—a great big wide show-all-your-teeth smile—and started laughing. "Caleb, I'm your grandfather, Cullen Ames." He wrapped his arms around the startled boy, squeezing him tightly. "And I'm going to enjoy spoiling you."

Caleb's eyes lit up, while his new father started frowning, "You are?"

"Absolutely, now, why don't you go get your coat? I think the both of us should get to know each other—talk, share our lives, and have some fun!" He motioned for the boy to hurry up.

Mac jumped up, anxious, "Dad? What are you doing? Caleb's grounded."

"Mackland, _**shut up**_. I've waited for _years_ for this moment…and after years of thinking it would never happen—it finally has and I'm not going to let _**you ruin it**_." Cullen got up, 'dusted' his suit with both hands, and then put on his trench coat.

"Waited? Waited for what?" Mac shook his head at his father.

"Plain and simple, son, _revenge._ There's an old saying that my father used to tell me… you never know what hardships you put your parents through until you have children of your own. And now, I see that you know! And I'm going to enjoy it!"

Caleb ran up to him, "I'm ready." He looked excited, but stopped short of leaving. "Mac, are you coming?" He looked at him anxiously from the door to his new father.

Mac smiled at him, "Do you want me to come? If you want to be alone…"

Cullen looked at them strangely, wondering if he was missing something, but waited for the boy to answer.

"I want you to come, Mac." He looked at his feet, "I'm tired of being alone…you know, it's over-rated anyway."

Mac smiled, staring around at his apartment in wonder at all of the new changes in his life. "Yes, it's definitely over-rated."

He grabbed his coat and walked out with his new family, rolling his eyes at the exaggerated stories his father was telling his son. "That's not true, Dad."

Cullen laughed, "Yes, it is. Caleb, when Mackland was your age, I got called to the principal's office because he scratched off the C-L in class and underlined the rest of it."

Caleb laughed, "I have to remember that one!"

"Dad! Stop. I didn't do that, it was a friend of mine…and it's _illegal_ to deface public property!"

"You were in detention for two weeks!" Cullen argued back.

Caleb walked beside the two men, laughing when Mac put his hands over his son's ears as if to block his father from negatively influencing him. Caleb grabbed the men by their sleeves and stopped their motion, "You know what? You're awesome, grandpa!"

He let go and started laughing ahead of them, completely missing the grateful look that Mac had given his father.

He turned his head to stare at them, impatiently waiting for them, then rolled his eyes when they'd hugged. "Enough with the hugging! What's with you Ames guys? Don't you know that it's un-cool to hug?"

Mac ran up to him and purposefully hugged him, then let him go and allowed his father to do the same. The boy squirmed in their grasp. "I don't know, Caleb…but since you're one of us now, I think you need to get used to it."

They all started laughing at the scared expression on Caleb's face. "You're messing with me right? You're really not gonna hug me _all the time_? –I mean, just, like on my birthday or something? Maybe at Christmas?" He watched his father and grandfather walk towards the car, "Come on? You're kidding? Dudes?"

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**The End – Chapter Two.**

_Author's Note: Well, what do you think? I laughed so hard while I was writing this chapter…so I hope you enjoy it. (8 pages)_


	3. My Dad The Hero

_**Author's Note**__: Your reviews are really encouraging… thanks so much. I actually have an entire 'series' of one-shots already planned out. Just need to 'put it on the screen'. Note To Cheryl: Honey, don't worry about 'the talk'; it's coming (next chapter) and it's going to be a good one! Your probably going to need to read it in isolation—otherwise people will think you're nuts! (Laugh out loud nuts!) Chapter 4 will probably be posted tomorrow or the next day. (Working on it now.)_

_**Chapter Note**__: Thanks so much to Ridley. She was kind enough to give me a little bit more information on Mac and Cullen. So, this chapter is for her! __**Tissue warning in effect!**__ Caleb is going to get a lesson in taking people for granted._

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_**Chapter Three:**My Dad -- the Hero.

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_  
1984  
Master Chen's House of Tai Chi Chuan_

Caleb Reaves stood in the back of the class, rolling his eyes at Master Chen as he coached them how to breathe and move. He followed the martial arts master half-heartedly, sighing.

"Feet separated. Breathe. Allow your body to relax. Keep your posture." Master Chen stood in front of the class, showing them how to breathe.

Caleb stopped, frowning. Leaning over, he whispered to a fellow student. "When are we going to learn how to kick butt?"

The master continued his breathing and movements, "Mr. Reaves, is there a problem?"

The youth bowed, as he was taught, before addressing Master Chen. "I was just wondering when we were going to learn how to fight. All we're doing is breathing." Caleb was incredibly irritated—he'd been so excited to find out that Mac had signed him up for a martial arts class; finally, a class that he _wanted to take_! But this class just taught him the same breathing techniques Mac forced him to practice every night before bed. He sighed again, this was obviously rigged.

The master was fluid; his movements were quick, yet powerful. "Are you the student? Or the master, Mr. Reaves?"

Caleb looked chagrined, "I'm the student, Master Chen. But this doesn't seem like martial arts. I mean, when do we learn how to kick and punch?"

The master opened his eyes and smiled at the impatience of youth. "Mr. Reaves, I am a forth generation master of tàijíquán. And the first step to attaining harmony is breathing—you must relax until you are rooted."

"I don't get it." Caleb put his hands over his hips. "How does that help you fight?"

"You must concentrate on relieving the physical effects of stress on the body and mind. Again, it is the first step." The man stopped his movements, arching his eyebrow at the boy, Spock-like, "Would you rather I made you wax my car?"

The class erupted in fits of giggles. Some of the boys jumped up, yelling 'wax on, wax off.' Caleb had to laugh at that, although he'd been embarrassed by the Master. "No, Master—."

His words cut off abruptly as his mind was flooded with pain. He gripped his head with both hands, as he felt himself fall to the ground. A scream escaped his lips, even though he tried to stop it by biting his lips. Visions flashed through his mind so quickly he was unable to keep up with the images. Only one thing stood out, and it scared him to death; forcing him to call out, "Mac!"

Afterwards, the residual of the vision had him shaking. He opened his eyes to see Master Chen kneeling in front of him, a phone in hand. "I'm calling an ambulance." The other students were watching fearfully from across the room—away from him—as if they could catch something by standing near him. One of the other masters had come to assist.

Caleb sat up, immediately wrapping his hands around his head to steady himself. "No! Please, I don't need an ambulance. Please, Master Chen. I'm fine. I just got a little dizzy. I just skipped my lunch today."

The man stared down at the boy, unsure. "I'm calling your father—you just lie there."

Master Chen watched the boy as he waited for the phone to pick up. It rang for over five minutes with no answer. "He's not picking up." He took a breath, making a decision. "I'm taking you to the hospital. I'll try to reach him from there. Class, Master Sun will take over. He's in charge."

"No. Master Chen." Caleb's cries were ignored. The small Chinese man was incredibly strong and picked him up as if he were a baby. "Please, I don't want to go. I'm fine."

"Mr. Reaves, you had what looked to be a _seizure _in my class. It would be irresponsible and unwise for me not to take you to the hospital." The man strapped him into his car, making sure the seatbelt was tight before gently placing a cloth on his lip. "You're bleeding. You must've bit your lip."

Caleb pulled the cloth away, surprised to see the red stain. He hadn't even known that he was bleeding. He hit his head against the headrest of the car as it sped towards the closest hospital. "Shit…" he swore.

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Master Chen literally had to drag the boy through the doors of the Emergency Room. Caleb dragged his feet the whole time, trying to escape from the martial arts master. Chen just gripped his arm as they made their way to the front desk. "Excuse me, Ma'am. We need help."

The nurse at the front desk looked completely disheveled: a phone in one ear, a pen in her mouth, and an angry yelling doctor at her back. She held up a finger, the universal 'wait' sign, then pointed to a clip board on the desk. "Fill that out. Someone will be with you shortly."

The man stared at her, then the form. He took the clipboard, then grumbled, "I hate this country," under his breath.

Caleb took the opportunity to wriggle out from under the man's arm. He ran towards the door, but stopped when a familiar voice called out his name. Whirling around, he saw Cullen Ames standing by the admission desk talking to a doctor.

"Grandpa?" Caleb looked confused, but ran over to his grandfather. "What are you doing here?"

The older man covered his trembling lips; he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. A moment later, _after Caleb's heart had stopped,_ he gave the boy a small smile and brokenly spoke to him. "Caleb, your father…"

Blood flew out of Caleb's face, "No!" He panicked, wanting to get out of the hospital. He didn't want to hear it! He didn't want it to be true—the vision wasn't supposed to come true. He almost made it back to the front door but was held tightly by Master Chen.

Cullen ran over to them. Immediately, he wrapped his arms around the squirming boy. "Caleb. He's alive…but, he's hurt badly." Tears were pooled in his grandfather's eyes. "They—the doctors aren't sure if he'll make it. But we know better. We know how strong he is." He lifted his eyes to the Chinese Master. "Thank you. I think that I have things covered. Thank you for bringing him."

Master Chen gave him a small bow. "I'm sorry—I'm confused. I brought Caleb here because he collapsed in my classroom. I had no idea that his father was in the hospital."

Cullen looked surprised, "I'll make sure that he's checked over by a doctor as well. Again, thank you." He dismissed the teacher, and walked back to the doctor with Caleb under his arm.

"Dr. Morris, this is my grandson, Caleb. I would like him to visit his father—before you take him to surgery…please." Cullen held his hand, as if it were the only thing keeping him together. Caleb looked up at him, frightened. His breathing quickened as they neared the room where his father lay.

The boy wanted nothing more than to leave, but his efforts were blocked by his grandfather, who stood at his back and had his arms wrapped securely around his waist. "Caleb, please. Just look at him. He needs us right now. He needs to know we're with him."

Caleb looked up. A cry escaped as he saw the blood, equipment, and tubes that covered almost every inch of the man who'd taken him in. Cullen pulled him closer, and patted his son's hand before leaning over to kiss the top of his head. Tears streamed down his face and onto his son's. "You get better, son. We love you." He focused his attention on Caleb, "You can touch him, son. You won't hurt him."

Caleb reached out a shaking hand towards Mac's wrist. He held it tightly in his hand and tried to focus his energy. He pulled it away after a few minutes, crying. "I don't feel anything."

Cullen stared at the boy in understanding. He licked his lips, then shook his head. "Try again, son. He's in there. I know he is. Just try again." He held out his hand and waited for Caleb to take it. Gently, he placed it on top of Mackland's, careful of the intravenous lines and tubing. "Just breathe and focus."

Nodding, Caleb did as he was told. After a few seconds, he gasped in surprise. "You're right, grandpa. He's still there. He's not gone." He stared up in wonder at the old man. "How did you know?"

A slight smile appeared, "Faith."

They sat quietly for a few minutes both trapped in their own thoughts. They stood there holding Mac's hands until a group of orderly's came in. "Sir, we need to take him up to surgery now."

Cullen nodded, weary. He held out his hand for Caleb to take as they watched them wheel his son out the door. "We should get you to see a doctor now, Caleb."

"Grandpa, I swear. I'm fine. It was nothing. Just—_what happened_?"

Grandpa shook his head, "I don't know." He turned away, glaring at two men waiting at the end of the hall. He pointed at them, "They said that it was an _accident_! That Mackland had been helping them at a construction site and he'd fallen off a platform! I don't understand this, Caleb. Your father doesn't know anything about construction work…why would he volunteer to help them?" The older man held his head in a hand, shaking it in confusion.

Caleb shook his head, "I don't know, grandpa…" He stared at the men until one of them came into focus. He gasped.

Cullen tiredly lifted his head, "You know him?"

"I've seen him before." Caleb responded. The men had noticed him. "Grandpa, I'll be right back. Okay?"

He didn't wait for an answer before striding over to one of the men in anger. "You!" Caleb didn't hesitate; he punched the man in the gut, and then tried to kick him.

The kick had been blocked before making contact with the fallen man's nuts. "Caleb! Stop this!"

The boy whirled around, his mouth dropping open in shock and surprise. "Pastor Jim?"

"What the hell, kid? Do I look like a punching bag?" The burly man pulled himself up off the ground, before fixing his cap.

"You were there!" Caleb screamed, "You were there when my dad was hurt! I saw you!"

Pastor Jim gripped Caleb by the arms, shaking him slightly to get his attention. "Caleb, this is incredibly important. Did you see where it went?"

Caleb looked at the pastor, puzzled, "What!?"

"You said that you saw the attack? You saw what attacked your father?" Pastor Jim reiterated.

"Yeah."

The man in the cap jumped in, "Then you can tell us where it went."

Caleb looked at him with distrust, "Why should I tell you anything? I don't even know who you are."

Pastor James Murphy took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "Caleb. This man is a friend of your father's. His name is Bobby Singer and he was working with us when your father was attacked. Caleb, it's incredibly important. We need to know what you _saw_."

He looked at them with distrust. "I saw lots of things…" He crossed his arms across his chest, then smirked at them. "I'll tell you. But first, I want to know what happened! The truth!"

"Jim, we ain't got time for this bullshit! We gotta hunt that thing down before someone gets killed! We don't got time to be playing with some kid!" Bobby Singer swore, pacing through the hall.

"Bobby," Jim warned, "We aren't going back into a situation unprepared. Caleb can help us." He stared the boy down. "You will help us? Won't you, Caleb?"

He nodded in agreement. "Alright. Caleb, I'll be honest. Your father –he's a _hunter_. He hunts down things that are…supernatural in origin. Things that are evil and hurt people."

"Like the thing that hurt me in the hospital?" Caleb questioned.

The men stared at each other for a few seconds, silently communicating. "Yeah, kid. And your ol' man, he's one of the good guys. Like us. He's a hero. He works with us."

Pastor Jim continued, "Mackland usually works in research; on occasion, he works in the field. He was helping Bobby and I track down a very dangerous spirit. It's incredibly strong and fast. We need to find it, Caleb, before someone else gets hurt. Do you know where it is?"

Caleb closed his eyes, trying to remember the flashes. "I saw a—I don't, it looked like a sign with a monkey on it? It was dark, an alley. It smelled."

The two older men stared at each other, "What'd it smell like, kid?"

"Puke."

Bobby rolled his eyes at the kid. "Puke, huh?" He blinked a few times, thinking. "Like beer?"

Caleb bit his lip in concentration, then nodded. "Yeah, like beer."

Bobby nodded. "I know where it is."

Pastor Jim stood up, pulling himself taller. "Alright, Bobby. Call Griffin and take him with you. The spirit is attracted to psychic energy. See if Griffin call lure it in, and then you take it out." The man nodded, striding out.

Caleb jerked, "Wait. I'm coming with you!" He moved as if to follow.

Bobby twisted, "Kid. You are not coming with me!"

Pulling back his shoulders, Caleb rose on his heels. "Yes, I am! I want to help."

Pastor Jim came up to him, "Caleb--."

"No! I'm coming." He fought.

Bobby lost all of his patience. "Kid, listen up! 'cause I'm only going to say this once. That spirit hunts people with psychic energy. Now, your dad? He's one of the best: best psychic, best hunter out there; hands down. That thing, it almost killed him! Now, you—you're powerful. There's no doubt about that. But you aren't trained. You don't know anything about the world out there—and from the way Mac talks about you—you ain't that interested in learnin' So, there's no way in hell that I'm taking you along with me, kid. At this point, you ain't nothing but a liability." He pushed the boy away, "Now, go!"

Caleb looked to the pastor for assurance that the man was lying. Instead, the pastor looked apologetic, but unyielding. "I'm sorry, Caleb." He put a hand on the youngster's shoulder, before motioning to Bobby to go.

Caleb jerked away from the pastor, upset. "Why?"

Jim gripped his cross tightly in his hand before answering. "Bobby's right. His words may be cruel, son—but he speaks the truth."

"I don't understand…"

Jim stared at the clock, watching the seconds tick away. "When you came into Mackland's life; it was assumed that he would train you. You have such potential, Caleb…but you seem _unwilling_ to train. Mac has tried everything and while you have made _some_ progress, you resist his efforts to teach you how to control your gifts. He took you in—he, Caleb, he _loves you_. He didn't want you to hate him, so he allowed you to continue at your own pace…He didn't want to pressure you."

A shuddering breath shook the small body, "He told you that?"

Pastor Jim smiled, "Caleb, my boy, he talks about nothing and no one else." He looked back at the clock. "He saved my life today, son." Jim reached into his pocket; Caleb spotted a flash of silver before Jim encompassed the metal in his hand. "He jumped in front of me when the spirit attacked. He's a good man; he'll be a good Scholar." Pastor Jim let the sentence trail off quietly, the last part barely heard.

"My dad's a hero." It was whispered. "He saved my life too."

Jim gave the boy a pat on the back. "Perhaps, when he wakes, you can tell him that."

Caleb's eyes filled with tears. "I will."

--------------

Pastor Jim gone to assist the other hunters, leaving Caleb with his grandfather. Cullen sat pale-faced and nervously staring at the clock in the surgical area waiting room. He'd become jittery over the last few hours, the lack of sleep, too much caffeine, and stress eating away at him. Caleb sat next to him on the couch, resting his head against Cullen's shoulder as he re-read the same page of "The Three Musketeers" over and over; unable to remember where he'd left off a minute ago.

Cullen stared at the book, "It was very kind of Mr. Chen to bring you your schoolbag."

"Yeah." Caleb agreed quietly, his voice barely heard.

Cullen adjusted their positions, letting the boy's head rest on his thighs instead. "Why don't you lie down? Get comfortable…it'll be hours before we know anything…"

Caleb rested against his grandfather, trying to relax, but only becoming more anxious. "Are you reading that in school?" Cullen pointed at the book, before letting his hand rest against the boy's brown hair. Unconsciously, he started a stroking pattern through the soft strands.

"No." Caleb let his hands run across the spine of the book, tracing patterns on the cover. "Mac gave it to me. It was the first thing that he gave to me."

"It's my favorite book." Cullen mentioned, "I used to read that book to him, as a bed-time story. I—uh—after my wife passed..." He licked his lips, "She passed giving birth to your father. You see, I loved her very much. And after—It was hard for me to know what to do. Many days, I would hide myself away in my office—he—he reminded me _so much_ of her…I wasn't always there for him. But, every night when he was a boy—I would read to him. It was only time that I spent with him as a father."

Tears crept out behind closed lids, "Mac reads me to me every night—and he's always there for me. He's a good dad, grandpa…" He started choking on sobs. "And I never told him. I never even got the chance to call him 'Dad'. I was afraid--."

The hand never stopped softly stroking his hair. "Why were you afraid, son?"

"Because, everyone I ever loved is dead. And I was afraid…that if I let myself love Mac, he'd die too."

Suddenly, Caleb felt warm droplets fall on his hair. He looked up to see his grandpa covering his face as he cried. "Grandpa?" Caleb sat up and hugged him.

"Oh, Caleb. I'd been afraid of the same thing—but, you know what, son? I lost so much time with him thinking that way… _afraid_ to let myself love him—to get close to him. By the time I realized how _stupid_ I was to think that way, I'd almost lost him. Son, please—learn from my mistakes. Don't be afraid to love him. I know that he loves you."

Caleb nodded against his grandfather's chest, crying. "He does, doesn't he? He loves me even though I tell him that I hate him, and when I screw up, and I cause trouble and I never listen to him."

"Yes, son. Love is unconditional with Mackland. There are no strings. He loves _me_—even though I was never there for him as boy. He let me help him through one of the most difficult times in his life—he could've just thrown me out of his life…but he didn't. He didn't—and now, he's given me _you_."

"Me?" Caleb pulled back, wiping at his nose with his shirt sleeve. Cullen slapped his hand lightly, then handed him a handkerchief.

"He—uh—if anything happens to him," he swallowed hard, "he wanted me to have you."

"You mean…I wouldn't go back to a juvie center?" He was surprised; he never considered what would happen to him if the worst happened.

Cullen gripped him tightly, "Of course, not. You're our family now. You belong with us."

"So, it's like the God-father, huh? Once I'm in, I can never leave." Caleb gave a small smile.

"Damn straight." Cullen pounded his fist on the couch. "You're not going to escape that easily."

Caleb twisted in the seat and lay back down on his grandfather's legs. He stare up at the ceiling, thinking. "Grandpa, did I tell him 'thank you'?"

Cullen slid back against the cushions, "When was that?"

"At my birthday party? When he gave me…" Caleb wiped at his face again, sniffling, "When he gave me my mom's painting? I remember that I was really shocked. But, I don't remember if I said, 'thank you' later. You know, once I got over the surprise…"

"I think that he knows, son."

"Yeah, but did I tell him? I mean, did I thank him for _anything_?"

Grandpa say silent. "God-willing, son, you'll have plenty of time to tell him when he wakes up. And, so will I."

-------------

Dr. Mackland Ames gradually woke. His eyes blinked back tears from the harsh lights of the fluorescent bulbs of the hospital. He tried to take account of his limbs and almost panicked when he couldn't move.

Mac flashed back to years earlier, after he'd woke from a three month coma—panicked, unable to move because his limbs had atrophied and his body was broken. He'd opened his eyes to see his father, sitting beside his bed; tears of joy were on his face and he'd called him a miracle.

Before he could attempt to call out to someone, a gentle hand brushed his forehead. "It's alright, Mackland. You're going to be just fine."

His throat was dry and sore, but he forced his voice to croak out, "Dad?"

"Yes, it's me, son." Cullen stood up and reached for the cup of ice-chips by the bed. He scooped up a couple of the chips, and then fed them to his son. "This should help your throat."

Mac gave him a half-smile, appreciating the thought. "Dad," Mac groaned, "I can't move…"

Cullen laughed, his voice light and carefree, now that his son was out of the woods. "That's because your son has literally glued himself to your side."

Mac turned his head, and found that Caleb was sleeping on top of him; his limbs tangled up on top of him—as if he were a teddy bear. "He wanted to stay with you until you woke up. No one was going to stop that boy—let me tell you. He fought the doctors, the nurses, the aids—everyone who walked in the room and told him that he wasn't supposed to be here. I told him that he could sleep on the other bed," he arched his neck towards the empty bed next to his, "but he refused. Next thing I know, he's crawled in next to you and then fell asleep. I tried to move him off of you, but he kept throwing his arms and legs around you—as if you'd run off, if he weren't looking."

Cullen sat back down in the chair next to the bed. "You scared the both of us. We were at our wits end, Mackland. Don't do it again."

Now that he knew what—or who his immobility was caused by, Mac was able to slide out his right arm and pull Caleb closer to him. "How was he, Dad?"

"He was terrified. He was afraid that your accident was his fault. He blamed himself…" Cullen stared at his son for a while. "He's a special boy, Mackland."

"Yes, he is, Dad." Mac ran his hand down his son's back, rubbing it slightly. "Very special."

"I'm glad you brought him into our lives. I think—he belongs with us. I don't think that I could love him more than if he were your own child."

"In my eyes, Dad, he is mine."

Cullen smiled, a twinkle in his eye, "He looks like me, though. I'm the handsome one."

Mac laughed, immediately grabbing his ribs and groaning. "Ouch."

The shudders woke Caleb, who immediately jumped out of bed. "Dad! You're awake." He threw himself on the injured man, who responded in return by hugging him tightly—pain be damned.

"Dad?" Mac stared at the boy in his arms, "I think that's the first time I've ever heard you call me that, Caleb."

Caleb sat back, tears in his eyes, "It is, but I promise you, Dad—it's not going to be the last. I love you."

Mac swallowed hard against the lump that suddenly lodged in his throat before answering, "I love you too, son."

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The End: Chapter Three  
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_Well, please review!__  
(11 pages)  
_


	4. Filmstrips & Striptease

_**Author's Note**__: I'm planning on jumping around quite a bit, timeline-wise. I'll just write what I feel, while definitely keeping within the "Brotherhood AU" storyline. _

_One reviewer asked me to please write a story about Caleb meeting John. While I'll consider the request (still thinking about it), I want to recommend to you to read: Forgotten By Letting the Rain In. It's a pretty great story that fits well with the Brotherhood AU saga. _

_**Chapter Note**__: Just read it! Thank you to Tidia for beta'ing for me._

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**Chapter Four: Filmstrips & Striptease  
**--------

_1986  
Location Unknown…_

Bobby Singer sat up straight, his body taunt. This time, he'd be ready for any attack. He'd underestimated his opponent earlier—a deadly mistake for a hunter. On edge, his eyes trailed the form as it paced, back and forth, back and forth like a predator, ready and able to rip into him with ferociousness, without warning.

His only recourse—as in all hunts—was to use its weakness against it. As he studied it, he'd gone through several internal check lists until he found the one he deemed to be the most potent against his adversary. He would need every ounce of resourcefulness and skill in order to get out of this hairy situation intact.

He'd watched it, just waiting for the right opening, examining the scene. To his left was a target. And to his right, well, at the moment, it was neutral—but Bobby wasn't willing to risk life and limb for something that could turn at the flick of a switch and attack him.

Suddenly, he found his opening. Perhaps he'd be able to escape unscathed… He stared at a brother-in-arms—in this case—he was on his own. This was a matter of survival of the fittest—and **he was going to survive**.

Quickly, he leaned over—a pitiful moan escaped his lips, hoping to draw the attention to himself. Hoping for a reprieve of the torture that they had planned. He put a hand above the bruise, which was quickly forming around his left eye. He shook his head, as if he'd been trying to hide the pain, but now it had become unbearable.

Thankfully, his right eye was still functional and he watched his target as it approached him. Blinking, he spotted an object in its hand and he forced himself not to flinch as it forced his head up and pressed it on the damaged area. He let out a slight yelp; the sound of his cry echoed through the small area.

He closed his eye, relief flooding through him as he heard it speak the words he'd been almost praying to hear.

He'd made it.

He'd get out of this alive.

-------------

_Earlier that day…very am _

Bobby Singer pulled the control shifts of his car, the sounds of the gears grinding as the car accelerated under his power. They would have to hurry—time was running out.

He turned his head to stare at his passenger, as if he were a bug—unwanted and non-stop buzzing. All he wanted to do was squash him—if only to shut him up!

"Slow down, Bobby!" The little bug spoke. "In case you didn't know this, bars don't close in these parts until 4 am."

Bobby glared at him. "Not this bar."

Caleb Reaves rolled his eyes at the crazy man driving. "What's so special about it?"

"It's one of Montana's biggest strip clubs." Bobby laughed heartily as his tag-along finally _shut his trap_ in shock.

Caleb's eyes widened. "You're going to a strip club? Like…a real one?"

Bobby took a second to glance away from the road, a smirk appearing on his bearded face. "Yeah. You can get the whole package there too." The fifteen year old boy's face turned a reddish-purple color as the implication sunk in.

The older man stared at the boy out of the corner of his eye; he knew the kid was smart—hell, both John Winchester and Jim Murphy raved about the kid as if he were the second coming. Of course, the Scholar, Mackland Ames didn't shut up about the kid. Bobby huffed; he remembered a time before the good doctor had adopted that pup. The man actually used to _have a life_ that didn't revolve around a snotty nosed walking attitude problem.

And now, it was like watching a master at work. He could practically see the wheels turning in the kid's head. He'd be patient… Ah, hell—who was he kidding—he couldn't wait to see what the kid would come up with.

"I want to come with you." He spoke it with coolness—an air of confidence that could've come from the Knight himself. John Winchester might be a hard-ass, but he definitely knew how to give an order.

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "You know what you're doing?"

Reaves smirked. "I'm sure I can figure it out—it can't be that hard. You've obviously done it—and you've got less to work with. At least I'm good-looking." That earned him a glare.

The car finally jerked to a stop, the wheels screeching as they ground against pebble and concrete.

"Kid," Bobby started, "I don't know about this…your ol' man…"

Caleb pulled himself up on the seat. "He won't find out."

"You sure about that?" Bobby rebutted. "About what'll happen in there?"

"Hell, yeah."

Against his instincts, the older man relented. "Alright, kid. I'm sticking my neck out for you—so there are three rules for this little field trip."

Caleb nodded eagerly, clearly encouraged and excited by the prospect of what was waiting inside.

"Okay. Number One: Protection. Think of this like a hunt. And the same in any hunt, if you come into a situation unprepared; you could die. And from what I'm hearing is out there—it'd be a slow, painful death. You get my meaning?" He waited for the boy to nod. "Number Two: No means no. The lady says 'no' and you get the hell out of the room. No arguing, no trying to convince her—nothing! Got it?"

"Yes." The boy looked a little wide-eyed.

"Alright, the last one. Why pay for the cow, when you can get the milk for free? There are lots of women in there selling themselves. You don't need that kind of girl—stay away from them. Or you'll be buying a lot more than honey…So, you ready?"

"Yes, sir."

Bobby reached into the glove compartment and handed him a couple of condoms in their metallic wrappers. He handed them to the boy and they walked in the strip club together.

The boy stood there staring up at the place as if it were a playground. Bobby nudged him, indicating that he should straighten up. He handed the kid twenty dollars in singles, then told him to have at it.

Caleb smiled at him gratefully, then ran off to explore this new world.

Bobby walked over to the front bar, where the girls were dancing. He ordered a drink then sat down to enjoy himself. Every once in a while, he'd glance over at the kid. He rolled his eyes at the scene.

Reaves certainly knew how to attract attention; he wasn't even working it. The women just came to him.

Sometimes, life was unfair.

-------------

_Not even **two** hours later _

Fucking Reaves! Bobby thought –a split second before a fist collided into his face, _the kid can't even shield his thoughts from daddy!_ _I'm going to kill him_. 

The Scholar looked positively feral. His hair, which was always pristine and cultured-looking, flew in every direction, giving him the wild look of a caveman.

Bobby groaned as he was lifted up and slammed into the wall. The sound of his head hitting the drywall conflicted with the sounds of Dr. Mackland Ames—**momma bear from hell**—screaming.

"YOU TOOK MY FIFTEEN YEAR OLD SON TO A STRIP CLUB! YOU LET HIM HAVE SEX WITH A COMPLETE STRANGER! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" The man shook him a few more times, making his head rattle slightly.

Suddenly, he was dropped and the sounds of a struggle ensued.

He looked up at his savior once the commotion had died down.

Pastor Jim stared down at him, like an angel from above.

Bobby felt comfort; _it was going to be alright_.

"You allowed _a child_ to enter a den of **sin**?" The man crossed his arms across his chest.

Suddenly, Bobby didn't feel so safe.

--------

Bobby sat down gingerly on the couch. Caleb was already sitting beside him—the boy looked as if he were going to the electric chair—which, by the look of the system set up in front of them, was probably a better way to go.

It was like the Spanish Inquisition, except Brotherhood-ish. Perhaps they shouldn't have gone to bed as ordered. The hours that he and Caleb had to sleep worked against them. It gave the doctor and the pastor time to re-group and strategize a punishment.

It was their first mistake.

Mackland Ames was truly impressive when pissed off. "Pastor Jim and I have spent the entire night discussing and researching this situation. And we're both incredibly concerned about the medical and moral issues..."

Caleb rolled his eyes at his father; trying to think of a way out of it. It wasn't fair! Normal kids didn't have a psychic for a father.

"…and we've come up with a way to educate everyone on the dangers of fornication in an adult manner."

Bobby couldn't help but blurt out, "You're just doing this 'cause you haven't been laid since you got the kid." That earned him a glare from everyone in the room.

"Dad!" Caleb jumped up. "It's not a big deal."

Mac only pointed back at the couch, "Yes, it is. That's the problem, Caleb. You're too young to realize the complications that casual sexual activity can have."

He sat down on the chair across from the desk. "And that's why Pastor Jim and I have created a slideshow." He started fiddling with the knobs of the old-fashioned filmstrip machine.

Caleb looked around desperately seeking an escape. The older men covered all exits; the dogs lay by the doors—strategically sleeping. He slumped into the cushions; this sucked.

Suddenly, Bobby groaned, almost collapsing off the couch. He gripped his black eye and started moaning.

Mac stood up and got the man an icepack. He felt very guilty for punching the older man. "Bobby, here, I brought you an icepack." He lifted the man's chin, then placed the ice pack on his eye. Bobby groaned when the ice touched his face. "I apologize for my actions earlier. I—overreacted. I hope that you'll accept my apologies."

Bobby nodded pathetically, and kept his face from forming a smile.

Jim stared at the man—as if he were staring right into his very soul. "Mackland, Bobby is using your guilt against you. Obviously, he felt that—as a doctor who's taken the Hippocratic Oath, you would feel badly after attacking him."

Bobby jumped up in anger, whirling around at the man who'd defeated his genius plans. "Crap, Jim! I almost got out of watching that!"

Pastor Jim argued. "No one is getting out of watching this! Now, I feel that it's necessary for the future of The Brotherhood to watch this film. The members of The Brotherhood should act in an appropriate manner—a _moral_ manner. Since we are the 'elders,' we will educate you. And you'll thank us for it later!"

Jim walked over to the light and flicked it off. "Mackland, you may begin."

The film started off dark. Then came the soft music from the fifties.

"Dad, please. Can't you just ground me?" Caleb pleaded as the film started. "Or just kill me instead?"

Mac patted his son's shoulders. "Son, it's important to understand the changes happening to your body. We'll watch the film and then we can discuss each issue that arises as a group."

"Dad, please!" Caleb actually got on the floor, put his hands together, and begged him to stop. "Please, I won't do it again. I'll never have sex—_ever_ again. Please?"

"Caleb. It's a natural process. Every creature has the instinct to mate. Now, this film will explain all of that." Mac was gentle, giving him a smile. He pointed to the screen. "Now, this part of the movie explains puberty…"

Caleb threw a cushion on his face, trying to block it all out.

Mac just took the pillow away and turned up the volume.

It was just able to mask the sounds of uncontrolled laughter coming from the men in the room.

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The End: Chapter Four

_Prequel to Black Bras & Strappy High Heeled Shoes By Tidia_

_(7 pgs)_

_-------------- _

Well, what'd you think? LOL funny?  



	5. In Your Time of Dying

_**Author's Note**__: My own request: I would ask everyone to please answer a question to help me decide the next step._

_1. Is there any interest in the back story of Duran Hughes? (The man whom Caleb Reaves hated in "The Line" By Ridley C. James.) There had been some innuendo regarding how Duran viewed the fifteen year old…but, I'm not sure how it would be viewed by readers?_

_2. Is there anything else (Another storyline) you wanted to read in the 'series'?_

_Please note: I'm not promising anything, request-wise, but if it's an interesting storyline…I may be convinced to write it. Hint hint…_

_Also, I've decided, for my own sanity—I'm going to veer off the official time-line, __**if**__ the need arises._

_**Chapter Note**__: Again, jumping around timeline-wise to Mid-In My Time of Dying._

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**Chapter Five: In **_**Your**_** Time of Dying  
**--------  
_Middle of In My Time of Dying. Sequel to The Long Way Back & The Truth Shall Set You Free By Ridley C. James_

_-------  
Caleb groaned. "I'm going back to Johnny's room before you break out in song."  
-------_

_November 2006_

Caleb Reaves left his best friend's room before he lost it. He'd tried hard to keep himself from falling apart in front of the runt. By joking around, he could keep everything from crashing down on top of his head, as it had been threatening to do for the past few weeks. Tears stung his eyes, Deuce was going to die. When he'd touched his ankle, he knew that it would be only a matter of time. His spirit was weak, barely even there. Caleb walked towards his mentor's hospital room with a broken heart, wondering how things had gone so bad, so quickly.

He'd been working on a hunt in Lincoln, Nebraska with Daniel Carey, not a member of the Brotherhood, but a friendly contact when he'd received a vision of that crazy demon bitch—Meg slitting Pastor Jim's throat in _his_ church. He'd tried to reach the older man by phone, with no success. He pulled out of the hunt last minute, leaving Daniel in Lincoln on his own. In his panic, he'd failed to warn the man of the demon threat. And now, Celeste Carey was a widow, and their six year old daughter no longer had a father.

Caleb rubbed his face roughly. If he'd known that Meg would try to hunt him… He took in a deep breath. Allowing himself to be emotional right now wouldn't help matters. It wouldn't bring Pastor Jim back; it wouldn't heal Deuce; All it would do would reduce his ability to concentrate—stress all of his resources until he was exhausted. No, it surely wouldn't help anyone. Not when the demons waged war against them.

He'd run to Blue Earth, Minnesota as if hell itself were chasing him—which it theoretically was. Fear flooded through his body as he'd approached the hidden tomb where Pastor Jim had his arsenal; the door was open. Jim _never_ left the door open. Reaching out psychically, he knew that he was too late prior to even entering the room. The warm tingling sensation (a feeling of home) that he'd always seemed to feel from the old man was gone. He'd walked in, saw Jim's prone body lying in his own blood, then screamed. He fell to the floor by the old man and cradled his body for what seemed like hours.

At that moment, he truly didn't want to face anyone—not Bobby, not his father; no one. Caleb Reaves, their future Knight, was a failure; The Guardian was dead. And it was his fault.

Things after that were shaky; he truly didn't remember much—it seemed like his mind was on auto-pilot. He'd tried to reach Johnny, but all he'd been able to get was that damned voice-message that he'd programmed into his phone prior to his disappearing act telling him to call Dean if it was an emergency. He swore in three languages before hanging up and then tried to reach his father. He'd called his office, his pager, his cell phone, and, as a last resort, even tried to call Esme Madrigal in hopes that they might be together; just this once, he'd be happy if that were the case. His heart almost stopped when he didn't receive any answer. His father was always reachable. **Always**. Mackland Ames was a neurosurgeon who was required to answer every page and call; lives were on the line and that was a responsibility his adoptive father took very seriously.

Caleb wished for the power to teleport as he'd run to the airport and booked an emergency flight to New York City; a nine hour flight was too long! He was terrified that he'd been too late once again and that he'd come home to find his father's body, as he had with Pastor Jim. He bit his knuckles to keep from screaming his frustration and terror.

One moment, he'd been on an airplane and the next, he was home. The time in between was forgotten as he kicked open the door, panic and fear overriding all rational thought. He frantically searched through the home, running from the kitchen to the living area, and then towards his father's home-office.

"Dad!" Caleb screamed!

Dr. Mackland Ames laid face-down in front of the fireplace, not moving.

It like a scene from a movie. Time literally froze and he could hear the rush of his heart beating in his ears. He felt himself moving, but couldn't think. He threw himself next to his father, praying to any entity out there for him to be alive.

"Dad. Dad. Dad." He repeated it over and over as he turned the man over.

He felt the wetness against his skin, but couldn't put the pieces together. Not until he heard the soft moan. Caleb wasn't ashamed to say that he cried like a baby as he held his father against his chest.

Slowly, he realized that Mac was brokenly talking to him. "You have to go, Caleb. Please, son. You should move on; there's no reason for you to remain here. You should be with your family again." The words slurred and were almost un-interpretable.

Caleb blinked a few times. "What? Dad?"

He felt a wet hand touch his face and watched as tears rolled down Mac's face as he cried. "Go-, Cal'eb. Your mom is wait'in for you." The words were slurred and broken.

Gently, Caleb kissed his father's forehead. "Dad, I'm alive." He looked around the room, only now noticing the empty bottles of beer, wine, and brandy littering the floor. A bottle of brandy had spilled on the floor and they were lying in it.

"No. You're dead. Jim's dead." Mac cried, unable to accept the truth, while grieving and inebriated. He fell back against his son's chest and started sobbing. "My boy is dead."

Caleb held his father for an unknown amount of time. Once his father had slightly calmed, he took Mac's shaking hand and put it up to his throat. "Dad, feel." He held his fingers against his carotid artery, "I'm alive."

Mac blinked up at him, once the pulse registered under his finger tips. "You're not dead? But, they told me that your—your –thro—at had been slit and you—you bleed to dea—th." His breaths came out in gasps, hyperventilating.

"Dad, calm down. Breathe." Caleb tried to coach him, but was too busy trying to keep his father from clawing him in his sudden frenzy. "Breathe, Dad. God Dad, how much have you had to drink?"

"Enough." Mac cried, as he cupped his son's face with both hands.

Caleb pulled his hands down and held them tightly. He stared into his father's blood-shot eyes, then stood up, using his momentum to pull his father up with him. Gripping him by the arms, he guided the drunken man to the bathroom. "Dad, you need a shower. You smell like a bar. You shouldn't have…" He let the sentence trail off; he didn't know what to say. If their positions were reversed, he'd have done the same—probably worse.

Leading Mac to the bathroom was an experience. Especially since he kept trying to hold him, hug him and not let him go. The problem was that his balance was impaired and he'd nearly fall in all of his attempts. He'd literally _never_ seen his father this drunk before. It scared him. He'd known how important he was to his adoptive father—he'd loved him as if he were his own and had been told that countless times throughout his life. But to see the man he'd loved as a father get drunk off his ass because he'd thought his only son was dead—it was like a shot in his heart. Caleb knew that his father would be devastated if anything would happen to him, but to see the man completely fall apart? Mackland Ames, in this state, wasn't even recognizable. The man he held in his arms was broken.

Pushing him down gently, he sat him down on the toilet seat and helped him pull of the wet clothing that was saturated in tears, sweat, and alcohol. Mac stared at him with half-hooded eyes, as he swallowed against the rise of bile that had suddenly come into his mouth.

Caleb had been watching and quickly handed him the marble trash bin. He rest his hand against his father's neck and rubbed it softly until his stomach had emptied, like he'd done for him—many, many times as a teenager. "Oh, Dad." He whispered against his ear, "You okay now?"

Mac just gasped, then nodded. "Jim?" He asked, hoping that, since Caleb was alive, the report on Pastor James Murphy's death was also exaggerated.

Biting his lip, Caleb's eyes filled once again. "I'm sorry, Dad. Jim's gone. I—I tried…" it was whispered, "But—I was too late."

Mac wrapped his arms around his shoulders and held him—the news was sobering. "Did you—_see_ him?"

Caleb nodded against the warm shoulder, trying to forget the sight of the older man lying on the concrete floor—his throat—and the blood. He moaned softly, a hand against his eyes as if to block it from his mind's eye. Mac rested his hand against his hair and gently stroked him until they'd both calmed enough to wash up and start dealing with everything.

Mac went to take a shower, while Caleb got on the phone with Bobby. Bobby was the one that told him about Carey's death—apparently, Meg disguised his voice so that they'd thought that _he_ was the one that met his demise and used it to torture John into thinking he'd been the one who'd died.

He'd also been informed that John Winchester had been kidnapped by the demons—last he'd heard and that his boys were unreachable. Caleb swore; procedure would dictate that they call him. Bobby told him that they'd all thought he was dead. There was no way to let them know that he was okay or that he wanted to help kill those demon bastards.

His father had finished his shower, so he'd sat the Scholar down and informed him of the latest details. Mac paled even further and started rubbing his forehead, as if in pain. They were both completely stressed out to the point of burnout. But as long as the Winchesters were still out there—as long as they needed help, they would have to push past all of the pain that Pastor Jim's death had caused, never-mind all of the demon crap haunting them, and help _them_.

"We need to find them, Caleb," Mac dictated. "We have to find them now."

------------

Things were bad; very very bad. There were times in his life where Caleb's psychic abilities were a gift—it wasn't one of those times.

He'd had a vision of the demon driving an eighteen wheeler into the Impala, but was impotent to stop it from happening. In his own mind, he'd watched the car as it was completely crushed under the weight and force of the four ton vehicle. He saw the blood; he saw death. There was no way to reach them—he had no idea where they were.

His father got a call from the hospital a few hours after their car crash. Sam was alright—just a few cuts and bruises, nothing serious. John had been shot in the leg and had a broken arm. He would need surgery, but it was nothing like Dean. Dr. Ames forced himself stoic as the doctor re-iterated the young man's condition. It had broken Mac's heart to tell his son that his best friend, a little brother to him, was close to death.

Mac had sent him to the hospital, while he starting making Pastor Jim's funeral arrangements and made frantic calls to all of the Brotherhood members, warning them of the severe increase in demonic activity and their attacks on the Triad.

The first thing he'd done was to check up on John. John had been happy to see him—alive. He'd told him about the possession, what the yellow-eyed-demon had done to his son. John had asked him to please check on his boys, as he'd always asked him. He'd gone without hesitation, he'd felt Sam's earlier attempts to reach him with his mind. The kid definitely needed to practice.

He'd spoken to Sam and stared at the broken body of his best friend. Sam had been feeling guilty—he didn't need to be psychic to know that. He was crying over his brother as he'd told him the stories that Pastor Jim had made up for them, when Sammy was a baby. Stories about the magical dragons that would protect Prince Sammy…the dragons couldn't even protect their own, Caleb thought depressingly.

When Sammy was little, he used to climb into his lap and would ask him to take care of his big brother—as if that was the sole reason Caleb Reaves existed. 'That's what Caleb's do,' Sam'd tell him childishly, 'You draw dragons and bring pizza and watch out for Dean.' As they grew older, his job had gotten harder; the small boys who used to follow him around and bother him had become men. Sam was—he was Sam: the protected. The spoiled one—the smart one. And Deuce—he needed help. The things that he told Sam were true. When Sam had left Dean to go to Stanford, he'd watched Deuce fall apart. He'd helped hold the pieces together—that was until Johnny decided to stick the knife in further and just took off on his remaining son; the son who'd stayed by his side loyally. One thing that Caleb could understand was that overwhelming fear of being alone. John had counted on him to be able to help Dean…

And now, he'd have to face John Winchester again, and tell him why he'd failed in protecting his sons.

Caleb rested his head against the door frame, he was shaking slightly. A nurse had come up to him and asked if he was okay. He nodded, then straightened. It was time. He had to face his fears—he had to face John.

He opened the door, and found the room empty. "John?" He called out, "You in here? You better be decent in there…" Peeking his head into the small bathroom, he realized that John had left.

"Shit!" Immediately, Caleb knew. "He's going after it."

He'd moved to try to find the Knight, but was sidetracked when he'd heard Sam's screams for help coming from his brother's room. He'd tried to push past the medical staff, but was forced away.

A few seconds later, Sam had come out smiling. Dean was going to be alright—he was awake. The doctors and nurses ordered an array of tests, so they'd wheeled Dean away before he'd been able to talk to him.

He wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulders and smiled.

Finally, things were looking up.

---------

Later, hours later—after John had been pronounced dead.

After Dean had passed out in his brother's arms in that hallway as they'd watched the medical team shock their father, over and over. As they'd listened to the frantic alarms of the ECG machine go off as John Winchester flat lined. As the team gave up and declared the only remaining member of their family dead.

And after Sammy cried himself to sleep in his brother's arms…

After all of that, did Caleb finally let himself feel.

He left the hospital hours later… Sam was filling out paperwork, making arrangements. Dean was sleeping, under heavy sedation—after his collapse, the doctors worried about his blood pressure and stress level. They'd pumped him full of sedatives and told him to sleep.

Finally, Caleb stepped out of the damned hospital. _He never wanted to go to a hospital again—the memories of being strapped down and drugged as a child had always left him fearful, but it was nothing like watching the people you love die_. He just started running. The cold feel of the keys that John had slipped into his pocket as he spoke to him that final time shocked his system even more than the chilled air.

How was he going to tell them that John had _known_ he was going to die? That he'd planned it, that he'd sacrificed himself for the life of his son. Dean was screwed up as it was—to give him that knowledge…_it would kill him_.

Caleb ran until he'd reached a grassy plain—deserted. He fell to his knees and screamed.

His screams echoed throughout the park. The sound was pure pain and agony.

Caleb was so wrapped up in his anguish that he didn't see the shadowed figure hiding in behind the trees.

He didn't see the sly smile of the orderly who'd just made the deal of a lifetime.

Or the flicker of his yellow-eyes.

It spoke, but he didn't hear it.

"You're time is coming, Mr. Reaves…"

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The End: Chapter Five

(7 pgs)

_So, what do you think?? I'm a little unsure about this one…so, I desperately need feedback. Did you hate it? Like it? Good or bad, I'd like to hear it._


	6. Belac

_**Author's Note:**__ Special thanks to Fidesdragon for the inspiration and the encouragement to write this story. Check out the new layout for The Triad: Brotherhood AU fanlisting—It features an incredibly artistic and beautiful Belac, the Red Dragon—complete with cross and sword; drawn by Fidesdragon. (BTW- We only need TWO more members to join and we'll be at 100 Members!!!!)_

_**Chapter Note:**__ This chapter ties in with In the Company of Dragons By R.C. James and The Best & Worst of Times/ Charge Their Doings By R.C. James/Tidia._

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**Chapter 6: Belac**

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_Late November 2006 _

It was a small shop, in a non-descript area of the town. Caleb Reaves imagined most people probably put up their noses and just walked past it without a second glance. But, the shop's reputation was incomparable: it was clean, professional, organized, and the artists were top-notch. These people would give him exactly what he wanted. The risks involved were minimized.

He'd opened the door and winced as the annoying 'ching-ching' sound rung aloud, announcing his entrance into the parlor. For a moment, Caleb closed his eyes for a moment as he considered his reasoning behind doing this.

_Things are so screwed up_, he thought as he ran his hands through his hair. He walked around the shop, staring at the artwork that literally covered the walls and counter top. There really was no need to look at them—he'd already made his choice. Caleb pulled out the piece of paper from his pocket, staring at it once more.

This was something that he _had_ to do.

There was nothing out there that would make him feel better—Reaves knew that in his heart, but it was a way to connect with the past. It was a way that he could honor their memories; their lives and engrain it within himself so that he would never forget them. Never forget their stories, their lives, or the legacy they'd left behind for them.

"Can I help you?" A young woman asked him from across the room, startling him. "You lookin'? Or you know what you want?"

He turned just in time to see the exotic woman force her gaze away from his ass. If this were any other time in his life…he would've given her a flirtatious grin and started hitting on her. But, he just wasn't in the mood.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could picture Pastor Jim lying dead in his church; blood was everywhere—seeping into his clothes, his hands… The death of John Winchester shortly after still shocked him deeply. The man had been fine when he'd spoken with him; the doctor's had cleared him to go 'home', while his eldest son lay dying down the hall. When Dean had suddenly woken—his injuries healed as if by miracle as John died; it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened. And he couldn't get any of it out of his mind; it was eating away at him—all of his training, his abilities, his strength—none of it mattered; they had died anyway and he'd been unable to stop it from happening. His father mentioned Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in passing, worried about his son. Caleb just shook his head at him; PTSD was the least of their worries now. The Guardian and the Knight were gone. Factions were rising up against The Brotherhood. The Yellow-Eyed-Demon was attacking them at full force. There was a change in the air—as if something evil was stalking him. But, when he looked, no one was there. He felt as if it were slowly driving him mad.

It was one of the reasons why he had decided to do this; in a way, it would mark him forever in their debt…in this life and the next.

Caleb handed her the paper, wanting to see her expression—hear her thoughts on his choice. If it was something she hated or didn't want to do—he'd look elsewhere; he didn't want a botched up job. Thankfully, that didn't seem to be the case. If he didn't know any better, he would've sworn that she was in awe.

"Dude, you draw this?" She arched her eyebrow at him, the piercing she had rose and pulled at the motion.

Caleb felt his face flush slightly, "Yeah."

"Well, it's great work. By the way, the name's Shelly." Shelly smiled at him, holding a hand out. Her arms were tattooed beautifully with floral patterns—each flower a color of the rainbow. It blunted his first impression of her. He'd pictured her to be a 'tough' chick—Sarah Connor-like biker chick. He read her—she was into beauty and thought of tattoos as a living art. In a way, she reminded him of his mother. A budding artist with a big heart and a dream.

"I'm Caleb." He introduced himself and shook her hand.

She stared at the picture again, then held it out in front of him—trying to picture how it would look like on him. "I wouldn't have pictured you with a fantasy piece—when you walked in I pictured you with as a tribal art arm-band type of guy."

"Looks can be deceiving." Reaves gave her a smirk, but quickly returned back to business. "So, what do you think, Shelly? Can you pull it off?"

Shelly smirked back at him, hiding the fact that she was slightly taken back by his lack of come-on lines. Obviously, most of the men who walked in tried to flirt with her. "Baby—I can pull off anything." She shook her head at the man and studied the image intently. She held the image out to him, explaining things to him. "This detail, the colors you've picked…it's going to take some time. Hell, it'll take me all day. And it's custom. If you want it this size, you're talking about a thousand, dude. You still in?"

"Definitely. You want it upfront?" He'd read her, knowing she was worried that he wouldn't be able to afford it. It certainly wasn't as if he'd walked in dressed like Joshua Sawyer in his Armani suits; as always, he'd picked clothing that suited his style—he didn't care about brand-names. To him, the cheaper, the better; it was easier to replace after a hunt. Just because he was the heir to the Ames millions didn't mean that he was going to take advantage of his family or start acting like a stuck-up snob.

She nodded, walked back over to the counter. She'd handed him some paperwork and started writing an invoice. "I charge 50 upfront, and then 50 when it's done. You need to read and sign those. They're just standard legal papers: consent forms, instructions for aftercare, and f.a.q.'s on tattoos." Shelly handed him the papers, then went into the back to get things setup for them.

Caleb signed the forms, one by one, exasperated at the amount of paperwork one had to do in order to just get a tattoo. Shelly had come out of the back room and checked over the paperwork. She'd charged him $500 initially and told him she'd adjust the price at the end if needed.

"So, Mr. Reaves, where do you want it?" Shelly led him to the back room and motioned for him to sit on the lighted medical table that was centered in the room.

"The right side of my chest, under the collarbone, and I'd like the wings to arch up over my shoulder." He pulled off his shirt and pointed to exactly where he wanted the graphic.

"And the sword and cross are just going to wrap around your ribs?" Shelly touched his ribs lightly.

Caleb moved her hand slightly, adjusting her angle. "I don't want to wrap it around; the sword and cross would just lie slightly under the claws."

Shelly nodded, "I understand. I'm going to go wash up and then I'll start on the outline of your tattoo using temporary alcohol based paint. If you want something adjusted, I can clean off the area with alcohol and re-draw it. Once it's where you want it, then I'll switch to the permanent ink."

Caleb watched her as she washed her hands; starting to relax a little bit. The place was clean, everything looked to be sterilized and Shelly seemed confident that she could do an amazing job.

"I'm just curious," she called out from over her shoulder, "Why a dragon?"

Caleb fought against his natural inclination to lie to the young woman; it was his usual M.O. to just make a joke or out-right lie when asked a personal question. He'd learned early on in his life that questions needed to be answered 'correctly' or else people would view him with suspicion. People don't want the truth; they would rather live in their cozy little ignorant worlds. You always needed to tailor 'truth' to make it fit in with their ideas of normal. And _normal_ was always forgotten. It was better to be forgotten—especially in their line of work.

In this instance, he wanted to tell her the truth. She was young—but there was something in her eyes that said that she would understand; she was sincere. Perhaps it was his own sense of guilt or grief that drove him to tell her the truth, but whatever it was, the truth came pouring out of him—like a drunk man speaking to a bartender. He'd wanted to talk to someone outside his circle—outside the Brotherhood and found himself comforted by a stranger.

Caleb licked his lips and wrapped his arms across his chest until she was ready. It was cold. She'd noticed it and flicked on a space heater that was next to him. She'd gotten her tools ready and had him lay back so that she could reach him. She'd wiped his skin with alcohol to cleanse it. Once the skin was clean, she'd reached for a pen and started drawing the outline.

As she worked, he talked.

"That's Belac, the red dragon."

"Huh?" She stopped drawing for a moment and looked up at him. "The dragon has a name, already? Most wait for the ink to dry first before naming things."

Caleb laughed, "The dragon is from a childhood story. I was about thirteen years old when I'd heard it the first time. It was just this made-up fairytale that Pastor Jim used to tell my –_nephew_ Sam when he was a baby. The stories were just exaggerations of our daily lives and the 'dragons' who protected Sam were us. He could take the most boring day of your life and turn it into an adventure."

Shelly's eyes lit up as she'd figured it out. "Belac is Caleb spelled backwards. That's cool." She'd finished the outline, so she'd handed Caleb a mirror. "Well, what do you think? Do you want anything moved before I start on the ink?"

Caleb stared at the mirror, and nodded. "It's perfect. I was actually surprised that you didn't transfer the image first, but your work is remarkable."

Shelly rolled her eyes, "I don't do 'iron-on' tattoos, pal. I'm an _artist_."

Caleb put his hands up in surrender as he smiled. "Sorry. I know how you _artists_ get."

"Do you, now?" Shelly raised her eyebrows, as if she was insulted. He knew that she was just playing—it was one of the benefits of being psychic.

He lay back down on the table like she'd indicated, and shook his head. "My mother was an artist—a painter."

"A painter—Reaves, Reaves…" Shelly thought aloud, "You can't mean Amelia Reaves? She painted those breathtaking ocean pieces, didn't she?"

Hearing his mother's name still brought made his chest tighten. He'd just been a little boy when he'd watched his father murder her and then kill himself. It was something that he knew that he'd never forget. He forced himself to answer her, "Yeah, she was my mother."

Shelly seemed to know the history behind her death; hell, anyone who knew her work, knew the story behind it. Caleb didn't know whether to be proud or disgusted about the fact that her work had been immortalized after her brutal murder and his father's suicide. Most of the time, he was disgusted and worked to buy—or in some cases, steal—her paintings back. Mac had started the collection after he'd bought him one of her paintings for his thirteenth birthday. Every year, his adoptive father bought him a new one. But, he'd been impatient and wanted all of them back so he started making finding them a priority.

Thankfully, Shelly didn't bring up her death—as if she knew how tortured he was about it. "So, you've got her talent then? I mean the detailing on this exquisite. There's even writing on the sword: Semper Fi."

"I paint a little. But I haven't in a while—things have been–crazy. The guy I was telling you about—Pastor Jim?"

"The storyteller." Shelly remembered.

"Yeah. He—uh—died in my arms a few weeks ago. He was attacked in his church and didn't make it."

Shelly covered her mouth, "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

"That's okay." Caleb waved off her sympathy. It wouldn't do for him to get weepy in front of a girl. He had a rep to maintain. "The cross," he pointed at the picture, "represents what he gave me: Faith. You see, after my parents—I'd been sent to live with my grandmother and she'd passed away a few years later, so I was sort of on my own for a while. But, when I was twelve, I'd met Pastor Jim and Mac. Jim was the first one to accept me for who I was—he didn't see me as just a 'problem child' or a rebellious teenager. He saw me—the real me and I'd been convinced that he'd talked Mac into adopting me. I used to do some pretty gutsy things—just to get a rise out of them. I guess I just wanted to make sure that Mac didn't change his mind about keeping me; I was scared that he'd just give up and kick me out. But Jim, he'd talk to me and tell me that I was apart of their family now. And that's all I really wanted, to be apart of a family again. He'd tell me to keep my faith. Jim gave me faith and Mac gave me love. I never want to forget that."

As he spoke to her, Shelly had been spraying him down with an antiseptic and anesthetic. She'd moved to prepare the needle and ink and slowly prepared his skin for the first pass.

Caleb grimaced slightly as he felt the cold needle against his skin, but the pain wasn't too bad at all. "A few months before I turned fourteen, we'd met John and his boys, Sam and Dean. John represents the sword…strong, resilient, unbending, and the toughest son a bitch you ever met. I wanted to be just like him. He'd been through war; he'd lost his wife and was responsible for their two small kids, but he didn't give up. He fought and did his best to make sure that no one else had to suffer that kind of pain. He was my hero. John taught me about life."

"So, he was a marine?" Shelly asked, "Isn't 'Semper Fi' the marine motto?"

"Yeah, he was a soldier—through and through. And he taught me everything he knew; he was my mentor."

Shelly noticed the past tense, "Was?" She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder, noticing that his mood was suddenly somber.

Caleb closed his eyes at the wave of sadness that sweep through him. She was a very empathetic woman. He'd wondered if she hadn't had a bit of the 'gift', as Missouri Mosley called it, herself.

"John died shortly after Pastor Jim. Complications after a serious car accident. He sacrificed his life to save his son." His voice was thick with repressed emotion. "It was unexpected."

Shelly stared down at the work she was doing. "So, this is for them? To commemorate them?"

Caleb reopened his eyes and stared down at his chest. He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. "Yes. I just—needed to do something. Sometimes, it's hard. I miss them so much. I expect them to walk in and tell me what to do next. Sometimes, I imagine Pastor Jim putting an arm around my shoulders and saying 'Caleb, my boy, have faith. Things happen for a reason. It's God's plan.' Of course, John would be there and he'd roll his eyes at Jim and just tell me to suck it up. They were my brothers…in the good times and the bad."

"You're lucky." Shelly truly meant it, "You're lucky to have had that."

"Thank you." Caleb said, thoughtfully.

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_Hours later_

Caleb stood in front of the mirror staring in awe at the reflection. The tattoo was immaculate. Shelly had literally re-created his vision. It looked exactly how he'd drawn it.

The dragon shimmered as if it was on fire. 'Belac, the red dragon was forged in the Fires of the Underworld,' Pastor Jim would always start the stories with an explanation of the characters.

He closed his eyes. "Please, God, don't let me fail. Please, give me strength and courage to protect them…" He'd whispered the words so softly that no one would hear them but Pastor Jim's God.

Shelly had come up behind him, a huge smile lighting her face. She put her hands on her hips and bobbed her head up and down as she'd stared at him. "So, not bad for a girl, huh?"

He laughed with her, before wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Not bad at all."

Gently, but slowly so that she didn't try to knee him or something, he kissed her cheek. "Thank you, Shelly."

She pulled back in shock. "I didn't do anything. It's my job--."

"No, thank you for listening to me. I—uh—haven't really talked to anyone since they died. We're—uh—a bunch of guys. We don't talk about our feelings. And even if I did want to talk—well, my best friend, he's not doing so well—you know, since his dad died. So, basically, I just wanted to say thank you to you for being so understanding."

Shelly took a deep breath; she'd been trying to keep from tearing up at the emotional confession. "You're welcome, Caleb. I hope things go better for you in the future. Just—don't be afraid to be happy if something good comes along. You deserve it." She dabbed the antibiotic ointment on the tattoo before bandaging it with gauze.

Slowly, they walked back towards the office after she helped him slip his shirt back on—making sure it didn't pull on the newly inked skin. It would need time to heal—Caleb would need time to heal.

Caleb Reaves was not the first, nor the last, of her clients to come into her tattoo parlor because of the death of a loved one. She'd once drawn the face of a beautiful baby girl on the 'heart' of her grieving father. The man had broken down in her arms as he stared into an almost exact replica of the photo he'd brought to her. Most of her co-workers shied away from those types of clients, feeling uncomfortable talking about death, love, and hope. Many times, they would refer the client to her—knowing that she would know how to 'handle' them, as they so delicately put it.

Once, she'd watched her co-worker charge a grieving client extra for a tattoo—she'd put an end to that right away, and reported him to the boss. There was no reason for it. These people needed help, not to be taken advantage of.

Shelly stared up into the eyes of the tall brunette man, she felt bad for charging him at all. If it helped him get over the pain of his family's death…it should be for free. It was funny, because he suddenly reached into his pocket and handed her an envelope of money to cover the final sale. It was as if he'd read her mind, and then did the opposite. She opened the envelope and then gasped. "Caleb. This is too much. The tattoo only costs a thousand. You already paid a five hundred dollar down payment." She tried to hand him back the envelope. She'd been planning on giving him a significant discount.

Caleb backed away, refusing to take it back. "It's your tip. You've done an amazing job, Shelly. You deserve it." He gave her another peck on the cheek before turning to walk out.

"If this were any other time, Shelly…" He pulled away quickly and walked out of the door, giving her once last glance before disappearing.

"Bye." Shelly called out to him.

She stared at the door for several minutes, then sat down hard in a chair. She stared at the envelope in shock…he paid more than double the cost of her work. Yes, she'd listened to him—but it was nothing that she hadn't done for her other clients.

"Caleb Reaves…I don't think I'll ever forget you." She whispered.

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Chapter 6: The End.

_Well, what do you think? It's emotional and thoughtful, but not overly angst-ful. Please review…_


	7. The Anniversary

_**Author's Note**__: Thank you so much for the reviews. I'm working on a few more stories in this series. Thanks for the suggestions…I'll see what I can do. _

_**Chapter Note**__: The "Prep" Schools mentioned do not exist. I just made them up. This story also ties into my previous story: __My Space?__ (Hey, it gives you an excuse to re-read it. LOL.) Also, be prepared for more angst! Also, there are some references from __And Innocents__ By R.C. James_

_**Thank you to Tara, for the beta work!!!**_

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**Chapter 7: The Anniversary**  
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_  
November 1984  
New York City_

Dr. Mackland Ames sat at his desk, shuffling through the papers hastily arranged on his desk, looking for an article he'd read in the latest Journal of Neurology. He'd read it and quickly discounted the information since his own research clearly showed the opposite result. He'd planned on writing to the authors and sending them his own research—in a way, challenging them to continue to publish their preposterous theories.

"Ouch," he yelped, quickly pulling his hand away and pressing on the paper cut he'd just given himself. The doctor refused to suck on it—there was no telling how many microbes and bacteria that might be transferred—and instead he went over to the sink and thoroughly washed it and then bandaged the small irritation.

Suddenly, the phone rang making Mac swear softly under his breath. The phone continued to ring and he noticed that Naomi, his assistant, was on lunch and therefore wouldn't rush to answer it. He glared at her through the glass window, then answered the phone _himself_.

"This is Dr. Ames. How can I help you?" His voice was terse, annoyed by the fact that he had to answer the phone.

"Dr. Ames, this is Principal Marcus at the Masterson Preperatory Academy."

Mackland's heart sank as he realized that his son's school was calling—_again_. "Yes, Principal Marcus. What can I do for you?" _I truly hope this isn't a repeat of the goat incident, _he thought.

"Dr. Ames, I was just calling to confirm Caleb's absence from school today. As you know, our academy has a very strict attendance policy. As of today, your son has used up all of the allowed absences for the year. And considering we are only three months into the first semester, I'm concerned. I know that your son suffers from a seizure disorder, but if his medical issues are that serious, perhaps you can apply to send him to a private facility designed to cater to his special needs."

Mac's mouth dropped open, shock making him temporarily speechless. "I'm sorry, but perhaps you are thinking of a different student—"

Principal Marcus huffed on the other end of the line. "Dr. Ames, I'm looking at your stationary—you've written Caleb several notes excusing him from classes that might exasperate his condition."

"Please, hold for a moment." Mac quickly put the phone on hold, then started digging through his desk drawer for his personal stationary. He found the small pile and started to count. One of the packages had been opened, and he didn't remember opening it. There were only five pads left in a package that was supposed to hold six. Mac bit his lip, trying to force himself to remain calm.

Of all the stunts his adopted son had pulled as of late, he'd never stolen from him before. And now, he found that Caleb had gone through his desk and stolen his stationary to forge notes in order to skip school and apparently he was about to get kicked out of yet _another_ private school.

He took the phone off of hold, "Principal Marcus. Thank you for your patience. I also thank you for taking the time to personally call me. May I ask, what will happen if Caleb gets another absence?"

The man on the other end sounded as if he were shuffling papers, "Dr. Ames, while Masterson Preperatory Academy truly appreciates the Ames family and its generous donations to our school, we must consider the best options for your son. It's become quite clear that this perhaps is not the appropriate place for Caleb. As you know, we've ignored some _unruly_ behavior—especially concerning the goat escapade—considering he was adjusting to the new atmosphere. And now, after speaking with you, I have the distinct impression that your son doesn't _have_ a seizure disorder… I think it would be best to transfer him quickly; of course, we will be willing to allow Caleb to stay for a short while until you can make proper arrangements for him—let's say two weeks?"

Mac's hand tightened on the phone, and he grit his teeth as he spoke, "Yes, of course. That should be sufficient time. If you would be kind to get his records ready, in order for me to transfer them to the new school?"

Principal Marcus smiled on the other end, unseen by his client, "The records have already been pulled and they are ready for transfer at anytime."

Mac leaned back against his chair, "Could you perhaps recommend another private school that may be willing to accept him?"

"Why, yes," the man sounded eager, "Please feel free to try the Westchester Military Academy. They've done wonders with their students, especially in terms of behavior and discipline. I think that you would be pleasantly surprised at how quickly Caleb's attitude will change for the better."

He shook his head, sending his son to a military school was not an option, "Thank you, again. I'll take that into consideration." He hung up the phone slowly.

The doctor sat at his desk quietly for a few minutes, all thoughts of research and work forgotten as he tried to keep himself in check. Things were out of control and he hated when things got out of control.

He stared down at his silver ring, worrying at it—he'd recently been promoted in the ranks of the Brotherhood by Pastor James Murphy, the Guardian. It was a shocking decision; everyone was surprised, including himself. Dr. Griffin Porter was Jim's close friend, and it was assumed that he would take on the role of Scholar after Victor Stephen's retirement and subsequent move to Hawaii with his new young bride. Gossip and rumor tore through the hunting community after his acceptance. Many hunters hadn't even heard of him, as he'd only worked with a handful of them personally. Mac questioned Jim's choice, he was a researcher and while he did have some field training, he was best suited for an office job. But, Jim told him that it didn't matter; "You have the heart of a Scholar, Mackland. This is your place—you've earned it."

It was difficult, all of a sudden being thrust into a new role; one that he wasn't prepared for. It took considerable time out of his already busy schedule to acclimate himself as The Scholar. He'd made several trips to Jim's home in Kentucky, dragging along his unwilling thirteen-year old. Caleb wasn't very excited by the turn around; their routine had been disrupted.

The FBI called him almost regularly now, requesting him in order to help track missing or exploited children. Mac had taken to calling his father to baby-sit his grandson, as he was the only adult that Caleb didn't treat with distrust and aggression. Caleb would sit and talk with the older man, telling him funny stories and showing him his artwork without anyone urging him to do so. And Cullen would laugh and share his own childhood stories…ones that Mackland himself had never heard his father mention before. It surprised the doctor; he would've never thought that the two would bond that quickly—and he was a little bit jealous; he wished that he and his father had shared that kind of relationship in his youth.

Although his own relationship with his father was uncertain, he could never begrudge the connection that he shared with Caleb. It was obvious that they both loved each other. Cullen Ames would give Caleb the world if he asked for it…but, Caleb wasn't interested in the material things, all he truly wanted from the old man was his friendship and love. Mac was so proud of him; he'd heard stories from the neighbors, their teenagers ran up all of their credit cards and put them in thousands of dollars in debt with their spoiled 'I-can-buy-whatever-I-want' attitudes. Most teenagers would run amok after suddenly becoming rich and he couldn't get his son to buy a new pair of boots to save his life!

Mackland truly felt that Caleb was a good boy—one who was now just starting to become a man. He agreed—volunteered, actually, to start practicing with his psychic abilities and focused all of his attention on working with Master Chen in his martial arts class. Caleb was slowly starting to build his body strength, wanting to push past the lanky and uncoordinated feel of his growing limbs. He'd caught the boy staring into the mirror a few times checking his face for facial hair. Mac laughed at him only in his mind—Caleb was starting to grow 'peach-fuzz' across his jaw and knew that the time would soon come when he would be asked to teach him how to shave.

Unfortunately, Caleb had a serious problem with adults that he didn't know. Teachers, police officers, psychologists, and social workers were all ignored, harassed, and/or sworn at. He would anger his principal and get kicked out of school with some half-assed prank, but would go out of his way to help an elderly woman walk across the street. It was confounding. Mackland only assumed that the women reminded the boy of his grandmother.

There was something else that was slowly eating away at the doctor. Caleb never wanted to talk about his past experiences. Mac could only imagine what it was like for such a small child to witness his parents' murder/suicide. Caleb refused to speak of it—even to his own grandmother, God rest her soul, when she was alive. His grandmother's best friend and Caleb's previous guardian, Bird Isabel had told him to tread carefully down that path. She'd warned him that if he pushed Caleb too hard about the past, he would only runaway. He'd trusted her council; the woman knew Caleb—she wanted the best for him. As a father, Mac wanted to protect his son from his traumatizing past, but as a doctor, he knew that the boy would have to talk about it eventually and hoped that he would come to him when he was ready.

Although, Caleb Reaves had seen many horrors in his young life, there was strength about him that Mackland was in awe of. He stared at the photo on his desk. It was taken shortly after the adoption was finalized—it was a family photo…three generations of Ames men. It was the one photo that Mackland treasured above all else; to him, it was a true Kodak moment. It had taken hours of rushing, pleading, and out-right bribery to get his son into a suit, but it was well worth the effort. Not only did he have his family photo, but he had a happy memory of their laughing and making faces at the camera for hours before finally choosing the 'normal-happy' one together to develop. A larger version of the photo hung on their mantle. Caleb chose one of the silly ones to keep for himself—"if only for blackmail," he quoted.

Mac pressed the intercom button, "Naomi, I'm heading home early. If anyone calls, just tell them that I'm out of the office." His son was his number one priority—he needed to go home. He needed to talk to the boy. Caleb was heading towards a path of self-destruction and it was something that Mac couldn't allow to happen. He'd saved his life that day in the hospital, he'd taken him into his home and into his heart; they were family now—and he would do anything to protect that boy—even give up his life for him. Mac knew that sometimes, the hardest thing in the world was to say 'no' to someone you loved.

He stood and grabbed his suit jacket, forcing himself into that mindset; it was time to lay down the law.

------------------

Mackland sat at the kitchen table and stared at the front door, tapping his nails on the wood, willing Caleb to come home. He glanced at the clock again for the millionth time. It was nearing 7:00pm. While it was still under his 8:00pm curfew; this was the first time that the boy didn't call home or leave a message to his whereabouts. Mac was worried—something was wrong.

Just as he was about to start calling around to Caleb's friends' for the third time that day, the door opened and Caleb walked in. He threw his jacket and bag down on the floor and started walking towards his room, completely ignoring his father. Mac quickly stepped in front of him, blocking the path. "Where have you been, Caleb?"

Caleb glared at him, "It's none of your business." He spat the words out as he tried to go past the older man.

Mac grabbed him by the shoulders, and swung him back around to face him. "It _is_ my business. Where were you?" His voice was stern. He would no longer tolerate the boy's unruly behavior.

Caleb shrugged out of his hold and then physically shoved him away. "You're not my father! So, just leave me alone."

Mac grabbed his wrist as he started to run towards the front door and pulled him into his personal space. "You're not running away from me, Caleb."

Suddenly, he found himself in a battle. The boy was holding nothing back as he started using his martial arts training to fight his father. Thankfully, the older man was also an expert; he hadn't had many opportunities as of late to practice the Asian art-form, but it was like riding a bike. Reacting quickly, he pinned thirteen year old; each hand was crossed over the young man's chest, effectively forcing him to 'hug' himself. His back was pressed tightly against his Mac's chest. Caleb threw his head back in attempt to hit him in the face, but Mac had predicted the move and avoided the blow. He quickly pulled him down to the floor and pinned his legs with his own, as if he were surrounding him like an octopus.

While Mac might've successfully stopped Caleb from physically attacking him, the boy was still screaming obscenities at him as he fought to free himself. "Let me go! You're not my father. You're nothing to me! You fucking bastard, just let me go."

"Caleb," Mac tightened his hold and forced himself to remain calm. He spoke evenly, "Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you." Something was wrong, he felt it—Caleb's heart was pounding double-time against his chest. He was afraid the boy would hurt himself in his panic.

Caleb bucked back again, "Let me go! You're not my father!" Mac winced as Caleb's head pounded hard against his shoulder. "You're not my father."

Quickly, Mac reached out to him psychically. It was painful—the boy had started working on building 'shields' around his thoughts and when he tried to read him, it was as if it was a sledgehammer slammed into his brain. There was a flash and he found himself witnessing the worst day in his son's young life.

In Caleb's mind, Mackland watched as Isaac Reaves pulled out a knife and stabbed it into his wife's swelling body multiple times until she bled out. A wave of fear flooded through him as the man appeared to see him—thankfully, he didn't seem to be a target as Reaves walked over, picked up a gun, put it in his mouth, and then pulled the trigger. Blood was everywhere—covering every surface of what had been a warm family home. The sound of the gunshot echoed in his ears and it was only after a few seconds did he realize that someone was screaming. A small boy—his son, crawled out, ignoring the blood staining his clothing and hands. He ran to his mother and threw himself on top of her body. Caleb shook the woman, trying to wake her and was unable to do so. Mac watched as Caleb cried for what must've seemed like hours to a traumatized child. The door was suddenly kicked down by police officers as they entered the beach home with their guns at the ready. The men scoured the house looking for signs of an infiltrator—no emotional reaction shown after seeing the bloody scene. The little boy ran away from them in fear and somehow ended up in his father's office. He threw himself under the desk (it had been his favorite hiding place when his family would play hide-and-seek together); the collision of his small body hitting the desk caused the house of cards that he and his father had worked on only days before to fall to the floor in front of him. One of the cards stood out from the others, and Caleb quickly picked up the deuce card and clutched it against his heart. Caleb cried out in fear as the door to the office creaked open. The sounds of footsteps coming towards him had him hyperventilating. Suddenly, a kind face appeared in front of him; a police office was kneeling on the ground and was speaking to him softly. "It's alright, kiddo. You're safe, now. You can come out of there. Everything is alright." The man held out a hand to him and Caleb came out cautiously. The man had seemed nice enough, and he'd promised that he was safe. It was only after he watched the men push out the black bags that held his parents' bodies that he started to hate the officer. The man had lied to him! Nothing was alright! He'd trusted him and he lied. His parents were still _dead_.

"No! Stop it! Let me go, Mac! Just let me go." The boy renewed the struggles in his arms as he realized that his thoughts were being probed.

A sudden realization caused Mac to tighten his grip in alarm; the boy winced in his arms unseen by the doctor. "Caleb, where were you today?"

This time, Dr. Ames wasn't waiting for an answer. He swept his mind through his son's and felt his heart almost stop. In his mind's eye, he watched his son as he stared out into the cold river from the top of a bridge.

The feel of wetness dripping across his arms jarred Mac from the vision. "I didn't, Mac. I swear. I wasn't going to… let me go."

Mac gasped at him, his mouth open in shock. "_Oh, Caleb_…" His voice cracked as he tried to keep from crying.

Caleb stopped fighting, his body collapsing against his chest in defeat as he started sobbing. "I'm sorry."

Gently, Mac released Caleb's arms and allowed his legs free. Slowly, he eased the boy to his knees and pulled him tightly into a hug. Caleb's tears were wet and warm against his neck as he wrapped his arms across his back. "Shh, son. It's okay. I'm _not him_, Caleb. You _are_ safe here. I promise you that, son."

Usually, the doctor prided himself on being emotionless in times of crisis—always allowing logic and reason to dictate his actions. This time, it was impossible to remain stoic. He let his own tears flow and drip down his face. He'd almost lost his son today and it was petrifying.

He didn't know how long the both of them just hung on each other as they cried. Gradually, he became conscious that Caleb was now asleep in his arms. The boy had literally cried himself out. Gently, he lifted him and carried him into his bedroom. He lay him down soothingly on his bed, then covered him with a blanket so that he was warm. Mac pulled up a chair from his son's desk and then sat down, holding vigil.

-----------

"No," Caleb cried out softly in his sleep, "Daddy…Stop. Don't."

Mac moved to sit at the edge of his bed, and then tried to wake him as tenderly as possible, not wanting to scare him any further. "Caleb. It's alright. Wake up."

Caleb screamed, then jackknifed against his hold. "No!" He pulled away, his head banging as it struck the headboard of the bed.

"It's me, Caleb. It's me—Mac." Mac sat on the bed, his hands out in front of him—showing him that he meant him no harm. He wasn't going to restrain him again unless he tried to hurt himself or run away. Mac had never forgiven the so-called psychiatric specialists for tying down a traumatized twelve year old child and nearly drugging him into a coma after fear-induced suicide attempt…neither had Caleb. Mac knew that he still had nightmares about his experience there—he feared being restrained and hated hospitals now.

Mac could see his son's eyes clearing from their confusion. "Mac?" Once he recognized his adopted father, he slumped back into the cushions of his bed and focused on catching his breath.

Moving slowly, so that Caleb was aware of his motion, Mac pressed his fingers against his wrist. He counted the rapidly beating pulse under his fingers for thirty seconds, then he gave his hand a slight squeeze, wanting to let him know that he wasn't alone. "You're okay, son. Just breathe." He slid his body over so that he was also leaning against the headboard, now shoulder to shoulder with his son. Patiently, he waited for Caleb to make the next move, not wanting to pressure him, but hoping that he'd let him in before it was too late.

It didn't take long; Caleb reached out a hand for him and Mac moved to wrap his arm around his back, letting him rest his head against his shoulder. Caleb seemed calmer now, actually dazed and shaky. Mac rested his hand gently against his forehead, then grimaced as he detected a low-grade fever. It wasn't uncommon for a child under severe stress to develop fevers; stress lowered the body's immunity against certain types of pathogens. He pressed his cheek against his son's head, thinking of how to proceed.

Only one thing was certain. They needed to talk _now_. Before Caleb closed himself off—Before he slipped down the path of depression or suicide.

"How long have you been thinking about it, Caleb?" He asked the question softly. The rush of the river was clear in the vision; Caleb had obviously thought about it—but, thankfully, wasn't committed to carrying the action out. It was a cry for help; one that Mackland refused to ignore.

Tears streamed down the boy's face and his hands shook. "I wasn't going to—."

"But, you've thought about it," Mac delicately interjected. "You went to that bridge today and stood on the edge. Did you want to kill yourself?" He asked the question straight out—he needed to know if he was suicidal.

"I just thought about it—only for a _second_— But, I didn't jump. I swear it, Mac. I don't want to die." The trembling was worse now, and it caused his teeth to chatter.

Mac quickly draped the blankets over his shoulders and started rubbing his cooling body; the fever was rising, he noticed; chills now shook the teenager. "You need to talk to me, son. I need you to tell me what you're feeling…"

"They died _today_." Caleb looked up at him brokenly. "And I was just—I didn't want to remember anymore. I couldn't deal with school or any other crap today. I was scared—I didn't want to come home…Didn't want to see _you_—like them."

Closing his eyes, Mac silently swore at himself. '_How could I forget_?' he thought, '_that it was the anniversary of their deaths_?'

"Why a bridge?"

Caleb was silent for a few minutes, then explained. "It's not the bridge…it's the water—the river. I hate the water."

Mac's brow scrunched in puzzlement, but waited for him to continue without prodding him. This was Caleb's story and he would wait patiently for him to be comfortable enough to continue. "My mom—she, uh, she loved the beach and she always wanted my dad to build her a beach house. On their anniversary, he surprised her with it—he designed it himself. She was so happy, Mac. It was her dream house. Every day, my mom would let me play on the beach, while she painted the ocean. When my dad came home from work, we'd build sandcastles together or go sailing until it was time for dinner. Then…one day, my dad--." Caleb stopped for a few minutes; emotionally, he was exhausted and fought to just keep from falling apart. Mac readjusted his position against his chest, trying to make it him feel safe and secure in his arms.

"He was—_his eyes_. Mac, it wasn't him…he wasn't my dad. He just—went _crazy_. He stabbed Mom. And she was screaming so loud; then she just stopped. I was scared—the baby…" Caleb started sobbing, "I tried to hide…and I thought that he'd kill me too. But, he just—he shot his brains out. And I just wa—t—ch—ed." His voice broke in effort to breathe, talk, and cry at the same time. "They—just they were gone. All of a sudden—I was the only one left. And, I just—." He stared into his adopted father's tear-filled eyes, "Sometimes—I wish that he killed me too."

Mac bit his lip, but was unable to remain composed. Caleb, who had been crying, stopped abruptly to stare at the man who'd taken him in, weeping at his words. "Dad?" He asked him timidly, as if he was afraid that he'd done or said something to hurt the older man.

Leaning over, Mac kissed the top of Caleb's forehead, then held onto him tightly. "Don't ever say that, son. Don't ever wish that. You have so much to live for." He pulled away so that he could stare into his eyes, "Don't you know how much I love you? Don't you know that I'd do anything to keep you safe? I told you, Caleb. You are _my_ family—_my son_. I don't want to lose you. I want you to know you can always come to me. You're not alone, son. _I'm here for you_."

Caleb sat up, rubbing his forehead. "I know that, Mac. I just—I didn't want you to think I was screwed in the head. I was scared…I didn't want to end up in a psych-ward, drugged out and tied up again. I was afraid that you wouldn't listen to me about the bridge—that you'd think that I was going to kill myself. But, I didn't. I swear, Mac. I just go there _to think_ sometimes when things get tough. I wouldn't jump…but, today, it was _hard_ and I just—_thought_ it for a _second_—but then, I didn't do it." Caleb stared down at his hands, "Please, believe me."

Gently, the doctor lifted his chin. "I believe you, Caleb. And I hope that you know that I would never –_ever_ do that to you, son. I think you know that, deep down. Have I ever given you reason to doubt me? To let you think that I'd just give up on you?"

The boy just shook his head tiredly.

Mac let him rest against him, gently stroking his hair—trying to comfort him. He let his mind wander, and soon, he realized something else that he'd forgotten.

"Caleb, do you know what today is?"

There was no answer, but a small sigh.

"Today is the day that we met. It's_ our_ anniversary."

"My parents—my foster parents…"

"But, you see, Caleb—all of that is in the past. You and I—we're making our own memories now. And we can replace those horrible memories with good ones—happy ones."

"I don't know…I can't right now. I'm too tired." The boy spoke honestly, he looked ill and he was losing his battle to remain awake.

"Then, just rest, son. I promise you, I'll take care of you." He helped the boy lay back down under the covers, then went into the bathroom to get him a couple of acetaminophen to help reduce his fever. He watched as Caleb swallowed the white pills, then took the glass of water from his shaky hands. Before he pulled away, he placed a damp washcloth on his pale forehead and told him to sleep.

He hoped that the morning would be kinder to the boy. He left the bedroom door open, in case of any more nightmares.

Sluggishly, he strode into the living area. Walking over to the small bar, he poured himself a glass of brandy and allowed himself to crumple on the couch. He slipped at the alcohol, then let his head fall back against the cushions.

They needed a vacation—to get away, just the two of them. It would give them a stress-free place to talk. He would take as much time as Caleb needed to get past this.

He took another sip of brandy, then reached for the phone next to him. He looked at the time, and hesitated to call. It was very late, but _he _needed someone to talk to. With a deep breath, he dialed the familiar phone number and waited for an answer.

"Hello?" A sleepy voice answered.

Mac pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment, then wiped at his face before speaking into the phone, "Dad. It's me."

"Mackland? Are you alright? You sound—upset." His father sounded worried, and he instantly felt guilty for scaring the older man.

"I'm alright. I just—need to talk to you."

"Do you want me to come over?" The man asked hesitantly.

Mac wanted to tell him no, that he should just go back to sleep, but the words that he spoke were the opposite. "Yes, please, if you don't mind…"

Cullen got out of his bed, "I'll be right over, son." He quickly threw on a comfortable pair of pants and a sweater.

Mac nodded, "Thank you. I'll leave the door open, so we don't wake the neighbors."

He heard the phone click off and stared at the phone for a few minutes, until the ringing tone started to buzz through the ear piece. Unhurriedly, he hung up the phone and waited for his father to arrive.

Getting up off the couch, he unlocked the front door and then put a kettle of water on the stove. He'd considered making a pot of coffee, but the late hour would dictate that tea was a better opinion unless they wanted to stay up all night.

A short while later, he'd heard a soft knock on the door, then before he could open it—his father had come inside. Mac turned towards the older man, but wasn't able to bring himself to speak. Somehow, Cullen seemed to know exactly what he needed as he pulled his son into his arms and held him tightly.

Mac wrapped his arms around his father, and couldn't stop himself from crying against his shoulder. "It's okay, son." He heard his father whisper in his ear as he gently cupped the back of his head.

The tea kettle's whistle made Mackland reluctantly pull away. He turned his back on his father, a little ashamed of himself for crying, and turned off the heat on the stove.

Cullen put his hand against his son's back when he leaned against the counter. "What's the matter, Mackland? I've never seen you this way…"

"I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't call you here to cry on your shoulder--." Mackland tried to explain. "I just—it's been a tough day and I needed someone to talk to."

"You can always call me, son, even if you do need a shoulder to cry on. I'm your father." Cullen pressed his hand against his back and led him to the kitchen table. "Now, sit down. You look as if you're going to fall flat on your face. I'll make us some tea." He was pushed into a seat, and then watched as his father started pulling out a couple of mugs from the cabinet, as well as the tea bags. Less than a minute later, a piping hot cup of tea was placed in front of him and he eagerly wrapped his hands around the warm mug. Slowly, it warmed him: both inside and out.

"Now, what's happened?" The older man was seriously concerned. He'd never seen his adult son break down in tears before; something bad must've happened.

Mac took a sip of tea, then stared at his hands for a while. "Does Caleb ever talk to you about his parents?"

Cullen took a sip of the hot tea before answering his son. "Sometimes; he talks mostly about his mother's paintings or his father's architectural designs. He doesn't talk about it very often, just when something reminds him of them."

Swallowing, Mac asked, "Like what?"

With a smile, his father answered, "Like an art gallery or a certain type of architecture. Bridges. That boy loves bridges. When we go on our walks, he always stops at the center of a bridge. They he stands out there, just staring at the horizon until its dark out. He can _go on_ about them, Mackland…telling me about the support structures, and the styles. He knows which ones are the highest, the longest. I was thinking of taking him to see the Tower Bridge in London one day. I think it's something the boy needs to do before he goes off to college."

Mac laughed sarcastically, "If he makes it that far…Masterson's kicked him out this morning. I'm just trying to get him to graduate high school."

"It's just a phase, son. He's a little wild, I know, but he has a good heart. Be patient with him…"

"I'm trying, Dad. But, I feel like a failure. You know that today was the anniversary of his parents' death? I completely forgot about it and left him on his own. He stole my stationary and wrote a forged absence note, then skipped school." Mac took another sip of the hot tea, wincing as it burned the back of his throat. "Then he walked to the bridge, stood on the edge and thought about jumping."

The old man's hand flew to cover his mouth. "No. My god, Mackland. Is he alright?" Cullen jumped up, as if he were going to hunt for the boy.

Mac grasped his hand and pulled him back into the chair before he woke Caleb. "He's alright, Dad. Caleb's asleep."

"What are you saying, son? That he wanted to kill himself?" Cullen looked completely shaken.

"I think—he was just overwhelmed today. He admitted that he did think about for a moment, but pulled back. I don't think that he was serious about it…he didn't make the attempt. But, I'm very worried. Did he ever talk to you about it?"

Hurt flashed in his father's eyes that he was unable to mask. "You honestly think that I would keep something like that from you? You think that if Caleb had told me that he was having suicidal thoughts that you wouldn't be the first person I call? I know things are strained between us, son, but you should know that I wouldn't want anything to happen to my grandson." He'd clearly offended him.

Mac clenched his eyes tightly, then slowly opened them. "Dad. Listen. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way—I just…I don't know what I'm saying right now. I know you love Caleb. I don't know why I asked that. I'm sorry."

Cullen patted his hand lightly in understanding. The news had thrown them all for a loop. "You said that he's alright? Does he need—professional help? I know of a few facilities that would privately care for him. No one would have to know…"

Mac rubbed his forehead, "Dad, trust me, if we choose that route—we'll lose him forever. Putting him in a clinic is his worst fear and I promised him that I wouldn't do that to him. I think we've caught this early enough to keep him from downward spiraling."

"So, what's your plan, son? What do you want to do?" The old man leaned closer to his son, waiting anxiously to hear his idea. They all wanted to help Caleb.

There was a slight glint in Mackland's eye as he spoke. Cullen listened intently, a smile forming on his face once he'd realized what his son wanted to do. He nodded in agreement; it was perfect—Caleb would love it and most of all, know that he was loved.

------------

Caleb woke gradually when he felt a warm hand on his forehead. He'd jerked slightly when a cool wash cloth replaced the hand. Peeling his eyes open, he gave a half-smile at the sight of his father perched on the edge of his bed.

"Good morning, Caleb. How are you feeling?" Mac's voice was soft. His hair was a little bushy; he looked as if he hadn't slept the night.

"I'm better, Dad." Caleb swallowed, his eyes filling slightly. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean what I said yesterday."

Mac shook his head, "Don't worry about it." Caleb felt comforted when the man cupped his face and then kissed his forehead. He wasn't surprised when his father's hands moved down his throat and gently palpated his neck. "You still have a bit of a fever. I just wanted to give you a quick check up; make sure you're alright."

Caleb wanted to roll his eyes, but was too tired. He allowed the doctor to examine him; if he didn't, he'd probably force him to go to the hospital or something. The man took his work much too seriously.

He winced when he felt the cold metal of the stethoscope touch his warm skin, but breathed in and out as he was instructed. Once his lungs were determined to be uncompromised, the warm hands checked his abdomen, gently probing him.

"I'm fine, Mac. It's just a fever. I feel fine."

As usual, the doctor ignored him and continued his exam. Once he was done, Mac helped Caleb up and helped him to the bathroom to wash up.

Caleb pushed the man out of the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He didn't need a chaperone to pee. He'd been doing it on his own since the age of two, thank you very much.

He stared at himself in the mirror; he felt horrible and was surprised to find that he looked exactly the same as he had before. Leaning down, he stared into the glistening white sink and watched as the water flowed down the drain. He'd hurt Mac—he swore at him and tried to physically fight him. If he'd tried that with anyone else, they would've beaten the shit out of him. He knew that from previous experience.

Mac was different—He didn't hit him or curse at him. He always kept his promises. Mac was always there for him, even when he treated him like a jerk. If he was ever in any trouble, all he'd have to do was call and the man would drop what he was doing to be there. Unfortunately, it was usually the teachers that called him; but he got the point. Mac always made him a priority in his life.

Caleb stared back into the mirror, a little sad. He truly didn't know what he'd done to deserve the man's kindness. Sometimes, he felt that he wasn't worth it—Mac should have a kid that wasn't screwed up. Maybe a baby—like Sam. He'd met the Winchester brothers on one of Mac's forced trips to Pastor Jim's farm. The five-year-old little kid didn't impress him—hell, he didn't even talk, and from the whispered conversations that he'd eavesdropped on, the kid was probably as screwed up as he was, if not worse. But he'd noticed that his adopted father liked the baby. He'd pick Sam up and read him little kid stories; all the while, his big brother would be glaring at the older man as if he were trying to kidnap his baby brother. And it was only out of sheer boredom that he'd sat down with Dean and read to him from the 'The Three Musketeers' book that Mac had bought him. He completely ignored the mushy look the man gave to him as he watched them together.

And now, even when he'd done his worst and hit rock bottom—Mac still cared about him. He still took care of him, made sure he wasn't sick, hugged and kissed him like a real father.

A knock on the door startled him. "Caleb? Are you okay in there?"

Caleb turned off the faucet, wiped his hands then came out of the bathroom. "I'm fine, Mac." He figured that would be the question of the day.

Mac stood in front of him, and put a hand on his shoulder. "If you're feeling up to it, could you please pack your things? I pulled out a suitcase for you."

Caleb jerked away from his touch, fear and panic making his heart race. "What?" He ducked from Mac's attempt to grab him and almost collided into his grandfather.

Cullen had been on the phone, so he quickly ended the call and stepped in front of his grandson before he could run. "Caleb, calm down. We're just going on a little trip, that's all."

Mac quickly walked up to the boy, knowing his words had been misunderstood. "Caleb, your grandfather and I have decided that we all need to get away for a little while. Go on a vacation. We really haven't had the opportunity to go anywhere, just the three of us and, since you're no longer a student at Masterson's Prep—this is the perfect time."

Caleb's face colored, "Oh." He looked at his feet.

Mac touched his shoulder again, and when he looked up he found the older man kneeling in front of him so that they were eye to eye. "I promised you that I wouldn't do anything to hurt you."

"Yeah," Caleb nodded. "I know…I just thought—."

"I wouldn't do that to you. Remember?" Mac grasped his hand tightly. "So, what do you think about going on a trip with two old men?" He groaned slightly as he stood, he was a bit sore after the work-out Caleb gave him yesterday.

Cullen put both hands on his hips, "Speak for yourself, Mackland. Caleb knows that I'm –what _did_ you call me—Oh, yes! I'm awesome!"

Caleb laughed, then ran to his grandfather and hugged him in hello. "When did you get here?"

Cullen patted the boy's head, "This morning, while you were still sleeping." He put a hand to his forehead, "I'm glad that you're feeling better now. Your father and I were worried about you."

"I didn't mean to worry you—either of you." He looked at his father, then his grandfather. "I just—wanted to get away."

Cullen nodded, "Which is why I picked a perfect place—all three of us can get away from the world for a while and spend quality time together."

The way he said it made Mac a little nervous, hopefully this wasn't some kind of rural fruit-of-the-earth type of place. While people like John Winchester seemed to be the roughing-it type, it wasn't something that Mackland would ever consider relaxing.

"I booked us the executive penthouse at the Glade Springs Resort." Cullen said, almost snootily.

Caleb's eyebrows shot up, "A Resort?" He sounded unimpressed.

Cullen became slightly defensive, "I'll have you know, young man, that Glade Springs houses two out of five top rated golf courses in the state of West Virginia!"

"Golf?" Caleb was starting to get depressed again. It didn't sound like he would have any fun on this trip.

Mac smiled at his son, trying to be encouraging, "Dad, you're forgetting the best part."

"Oh, that's right. There is something there that might interest you, Caleb." Cullen drew out his words, making it sounds mysterious.

"What's that?" Caleb wasn't really in the mood to play around.

Grandpa handed him a faxed copy of a printed brochure, "I assumed you wouldn't be interested in golf…so, while I'm off practicing my swing, I thought that you and Mackland might want to take a walk across the New River Gorge Bridge."

Caleb's mouth dropped open as he stared at the enormous, beautifully constructed bridge. He stared at his father, "Really? You'd come with me to see it? You're not afraid that I'd…"

Mac looked into the boy's eyes, and asked him honestly, "Should I be?"

"No," Caleb shook his head, "I wouldn't do that to you."

"You know, I want you to come to me if you ever feel that way again. Please, Caleb. Just promise me that."

"I promise, Mac." Caleb was sincere. He didn't want to hurt the man who'd taken him in. He spotted his backpack on the floor where he threw it yesterday and walked over to pick it up. Placing the bag on the kitchen table, Caleb unzipped the front compartment and pulled out a familiar pad of paper.

Mac ignored the boy's trembling hand as he handed him his stolen stationary pad. The thirteen year old stared at his feet, "I'm sorry, Mac."

"Come with me." Caleb glanced up in shock when Mac grabbed his hand and then pulled him over to what they'd deemed the kitchen 'junk' drawer. The boy watched as he put the pad in the drawer, then pushed it shut. "I'm going to leave the pad in this drawer. Now, you know my policy on education; I'm not changing that nor will I allow you to go wild, son. But, if you need a break—if things are overwhelming and you can't handle school, I'm willing to listen to you. And I'm willing to _write_ you a note excusing you from classes. I don't want you to forge my signature, Caleb or invent any illnesses." Mac looked stern, "You have no idea what could've happened, son. What if you collapsed in school and the teachers told the doctors that you had a seizure disorder? They would administer anti-seizure drugs—ones that might hurt you. So, no more lying and no more stealing. If you need _anything,_ just ask me. Okay, son?"

"Okay." Caleb's head was starting to spin a little bit and he closed his eyes. The situation wasn't going as he was expecting. He thought that the man would freak out—start yelling and screaming at him. He'd heard the saying that anticipation was the worst form of torture, but he really didn't know how true it was until he started living with Dr. Ames. Some days, he was just waiting for the man to go off on him…and it was always anticlimactic when he didn't.

"Caleb. Caleb." He'd heard his name being called a few times, so he decided to open his eyes. He was extremely surprised to find himself staring at the ceiling. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay." He forced his gaze to the voice, and found his father sitting on the floor beside him, stroking his forehead and shoulder. Someone was holding his hand, so he turned to see his grandfather's concerned face.

"What happened?" His voice was weak, almost a whimper.

"You fainted, son." Mac looked tiredly at his father, "Perhaps we should put our trip on hold, Dad."

The older man looked incredibly worried, "I think that's a good idea—until Caleb feels better."

"No," Caleb struggled to pull himself off the floor, and found himself held down by two sets of arms, "I wanna go. Please?"

"Caleb…you need to rest." Mac didn't want to argue.

"Dad. We'll be at a decked-out resort, won't we? I won't even have to get out of bed to feed myself—I can call room service! I promise, I'll rest!" Caleb looked at him, pleading with his eyes.

The two older men communicated silently and seemed to come up with a decision. Mac gently helped him sit up and watched him like a hawk to make sure he wouldn't pass out again. Once he was upright, they helped him into a kitchen chair. Mac left him in his grandfather's care as he went over to the refrigerator and pulled out the container of orange juice. He poured a tall glass of the juice and then handed it to him. "Alright, we'll go. But, I want you to drink that. Drink it slowly and I want you to drink **all **of it. Considering you probably haven't eaten anything in twenty-four hours… I'll see about fixing us some breakfast, while Dad packs your things?" He looked towards his father, checking to see if that arrangement was agreeable.

Cullen ran a hand across his grandson's head before getting up to walk to his bedroom. "Not to worry, Caleb. I have a superior sense of style—not like your father. I'll pack you _cool_ clothes." Mac rolled his eyes, his father loved to make jokes out of his expense.

"Thanks, grandpa." The boy smiled, drinking the orange juice.

Mac had made quick work out of frying a couple of eggs. He placed the plate in front of Caleb, then sat down next to his son. "Are you sure that you're up to this trip, son?"

Caleb gulped down the last bit of juice, "Absolutely. I feel better now. Not as shaky…" He pulled the plate of eggs closer to him, the stabbed at the yolk with his fork. "I guess I'm just hungry or something."

"You really want to see that bridge, huh?" Mac arched an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, I do. There's just…something about it. It would be, just awesome to see it." It wasn't hard to see Caleb's enthusiasm about the subject.

"You know, you've never mentioned it to me…that you love bridges." His father knew about his grandson's passion, but it was something Caleb had never mentioned to him. For a moment, Mac feared that he'd pushed too hard because Caleb didn't respond.

The boy looked as if he were caught in a memory, but shook himself out of it a few seconds later. "When I was little," he looked up, waiting to see if he had a captive audience, "My dad, he used to bring home model kits. Some of them were cars, and planes…you know the normal ones? He'd buy the more complicated ones: buildings, castles, ships—and bridges and he'd work on them almost every night. You know how you and I read together before bed? Well, my dad and I would build something."

Mac smiled, "That sounds like fun. Something that you and your father enjoyed doing together."

"It _was_ fun. My favorite things to build were the bridges. I don't know, but when I see a bridge—it reminds of my parents."

They were silent for a while, when suddenly Mac remembered something. "You know, I have a couple of books that you might like, Caleb." Mac stood up and walked over to his bookshelf. He pulled out two books: Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" and "An Autobiography" by Frank Lloyd Wright. While he wasn't sure that his thirteen year old son would appreciate a book of poetry, Frank Lloyd Wright's work would most definitely spark an interest for the budding architect. "Perhaps you can read them on the flight to West Virginia?"

He handed him the books and watched him flip through the pages. "Thanks, Dad."

From across the hall, Cullen watched his son and grandson interact. It warmed his heart to hear Caleb call Mackland 'Dad', just as it did when he called him 'Grandpa'. The boy would be alright. They'd both make sure of it.

-------------

Caleb Reaves stood at the center of the huge steel-arch bridge, eight hundred and seventy six feet above the ground with his father by his side.

They'd made it to the highest and longest bridge in the world.

Mac laughed, "Thankfully, neither of us has a fear of heights, son." He bumped their shoulders together and pointed at the sunset. "Thank you for sharing this with me, Caleb. It's a beautiful sight—one I don't think that I'll ever forget."

Caleb turned his head, "I'm never going to forget it, either. You know why?"

Shaking his head, Mac waited for him to tell him.

"Because I'm on top of the world with my dad."

Mac wrapped his arms around his shoulders and gave him a hug. "You're right, son. We are on top of the world."

Together, they sat shoulder to shoulder and waited for the sun to disappear in the sky.

----------------

The End: Chapter 7  
---------------

_A/N: So, what'd you think?? (PAGES: 20) This was slightly LONGER than a one-shot, but I posted it as a one-shot so that no one gets confused. Hope you like it! This one took me a LONG TIME to finish. So, please review!!!!_

_FYI – In 1984, the New River Gorge Bridge was the longest and highest in the world. (It's not now.)_


	8. A Child's Potential

**A Child's Potential**

- **Author:** Sensue  
- **Summary:** Brotherhood AU. Dr. Mackland Ames discovers Dean's hidden potential.  
- **Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural: the series or either of the two hot guys in it. Wish I did, especially Jensen Ackles. The Brotherhood AU was developed by Ridley C. James and Tidia.  
- **Rating:** TV-14

**  
Post "The Password" By Tidia.  
(Also ties in to "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman" By Tidia)**

**1988  
**_**New York City**_

Dr. Mackland Ames eased the guest bedroom door open, trying to be as quiet as possible—as to not disturb the two sleeping children.

The doctor inched his way towards the younger of the two, and picked up the blanket the little boy had without a doubt kicked off in the middle of the night. Gently, he draped the blanket across his body, covering him to his shoulder. Before he pulled away completely, Mac let his hand rest on the still flushed face of the sick five-year-old. The doctor happily noted that the fever that had raged over the last few days was nearly gone. With the exception of a lingering cough and runny nose, Sammy was nearly back to his energetic norm.

Suddenly, he felt a gaze pierce his back. He turned his head to see Dean staring at him. Mac glanced at his watch, it was almost 2 a.m. "Dean, it's late, son. What're you doing up?" He'd hoped that the boy wasn't catching the flu. Slowly, he walked over to the older boy's side of the king-sized bed. He'd wanted to separate the two brothers but found himself in a battle he knew he'd lose.

Sammy screamed, cried, and threw the mother of all temper tantrums when he suggested that Dean should sleep in Caleb's room. Dean was no better, except where Sam was vocal, Dean was silent. The nine year old just stared at him as if he'd been betrayed. He spent the rest of the day answering him with only a 'yes, sir' or 'no, sir'. It was something that pulled at his heart. He never wanted to be seen as a drill sergeant—they were children, not John's trained soldiers. So, he backed down and allowed the boys to stay together. He gave them separate sheets, pillows, and blankets in hopes of reducing the risk that Dean would contract the virus from his clinging little brother.

Mac was just thankful that their father had brought them to his condo, instead of leaving them on their own in a dirty motel room. It was something that he truly didn't understand; how could the man think that it was good parenting to force a nine year old to run a household on his own, to leave two grammar school aged children on their own for days at a time. Although his reasons were different, if he was gone for more than a day or two, Caleb would be sent to stay at his grandfather's place. No matter how much the teen complained and whined about it, Mackland couldn't risk coming home to find a pregnant teenaged girl and her father showing up at his door.

The older man walked over to Dean's side of the bed and sat down at the edge, waiting the boy out. He'd learned early on that Dean would speak on his own terms and at his own time; you couldn't rush him.

Dean shrugged, "Couldn't sleep…Sammy's breathing sounds funny. Is he okay?"

Mac smiled at him reassuringly, "He's getting better, just a little bit stuffed up. It'll clear up in another couple of days, don't worry." The child slept soundly, safe and secure in the arms of the person who loved him most in the world. Unlike Dean, who woke up at the slightest sound, Sammy could sleep through almost anything.

Dean glanced up at the doctor for a moment, nodded, and then forced his gaze towards his hands before picking at the sheets covering his legs.

"Are you alright, Dean? Mac asked him quietly.

"Yeah," He pulled at a string that'd been plucked from the edge of the sheet. He played with it for a while, before asking, "Can I ask you a question?"

Mac put his hand on top of the boy's blanket-covered knee, "Of course."

Several emotions flickered in Dean's eyes. While he was adept at hiding his emotions, his eyes gave him away every time. Those who knew how to read Dean's eyes could see into his very soul. So, he patiently waited for him.

"Are you mad at Caleb?" The small voice whispered in the darkness.

A puzzled frown appeared on Mac's face. '_Are you mad at Caleb?_' Mac wasn't sure where the question originated from. "No, I'm not mad at Caleb. Is there something that would lead you to believe that I am?"

Dean turned a little on his side to face the older man. "You told him that he had to go away…even if he didn't want to."

"Go away?" Mac asked him, "When did you hear me tell Caleb that he had to go away?"

Dean stared at his fingers, then lifted his face in accusation, "When he was filling out those papers. He said that he didn't want to go and you told him that he had to."

Understanding suddenly filled his mind, "You mean when we were filling out college applications?"

Dean bit his lip and then nodded worriedly.

"Dean," Mac started softly, "Do you know what college is?" He saw Dean shrug… wordlessly answering his question. "They are special schools that adults go to educate themselves in skills to use in a future career."

"Like hunting?"

He stared at the child sadly. After his mother's death, all traces of anything 'normal' were buried along with her. All he knew now was the hunt—it was the hunt that drove his father, the threat of danger that ran their lives, the constant upheaval from practically living out of their car state to state. "No, Dean. You don't have to go to college in order to hunt. Hunters learn from other hunters."

"So, Caleb doesn't have to go. He wants to be a hunter." Dean didn't see any other reason for his best friend to go away.

"Yes, you're right. He does want to be a hunter, but," Mac stopped and rubbed at his mustache, trying to find the right words—not wanting to paint his father in a bad light, "I think that it's best for Caleb to explore other interests as well. He's a creative person, one who loves to build things…I just want him to have other opportunities, to see other places, and to have fun." He quietly chuckled, "Dean, some of the best times in my life were in college and medical school."

Dean looked up curiously, "You went to college?"

"Yes." He smiled, "I went to college, then medical school. That's where I learned how to be a doctor."

The fact that Mackland was a doctor hadn't escaped Dean. Mac was the one who gave them medicine and helped them feel better if they were hurt or sick. After dad came from the hospital, Mac changed John's bandages, gave him medicine so that he wouldn't be in pain, and helped him gain his strength back after his surgery. "Oh…Did dad go?"

"Well, your dad joined the Marine Corp. It's not college—it's military, but he had the opportunity to learn things—auto repair, weapons training, leadership, discipline—things that have helped him become a great hunter."

"Do I have to go?" The boy looked worried, staring down at his sleeping little brother as if someone were going to snatch him from right under his nose.

Mackland gently pulled open his clenched fists. "No, you don't have to go if you don't want to. Dean, this isn't something you need to think about now. You have to graduate high school first…you're still in elementary school."

Dean still looked scared, "When's Caleb leaving?" His voice broke at the last word.

Mac drew him into his arms and rubbed his back, "He's not leaving yet, son. He still has a year and a half to finish high school. Caleb and I are just starting the process, filling out applications. Nothing has been decided yet. He may decide to go to a college or university near home. But, I promise you Dean; he won't just leave without telling you. And, you can always visit. We could do visit him together, if you like."

"Okay." The boy whispered against his neck.

The older man patted him for a few more moments before pulling away and getting him settled back into the bed. Mac pulled the covers up over his shoulders. "Get some sleep, Dean. It's late."

The boy suddenly looked younger as his eyes began to droop. "Goodnight, Mac."

As the doctor gently closed the bedroom door, he could only pray that Dean would have sweet dreams tonight—a child's dreams of lollipops and candy canes.

_Next morning_

Lights dimmed on and off as the room spun on its axis. There was a distinctive haze; the edges of sight were blurry. The air itself was running out, making even simple breathing feel as if it were done through a pin-holed straw.

He heard a noise, voices speaking to him. Cool hands, cool cloths, wetness, warmth, wetness again…repeating until the haze grew and darkness found him once again.

* * *

The next time he woke, he felt a small hand on his forehead. A straw was pressed to his lips and he was encouraged to drink. The sweet tangy flavor of orange juice flooded through his taste buds. He moaned softly as a stinging burned his throat. The cup was taken away and a damp wash cloth was placed on his forehead.

"Thanks, Caleb." Mac groaned; he was tired and didn't even have the energy to crack open his eyes.

The small hand patted his head; he heard the voice whisper to him. "It'll be okay, Mac. Don't worry. You'll feel better soon. I'll take care of you."

"Dean?" The doctor forced his eyes open, and the connection was made.

"Do you feel better, Mac?" Dean looked at him with wide eyes, a cup of orange juice still in his hands.

Mac pushed himself up slightly, so that he was leaning against the extra pillows he found on his bed. "Where's Caleb, Dean?" His voice was scratchy, every sound whispered.

Dean handed him the cup of juice and watched him sip at it. "He and Sammy are shopping. We needed more food, and you needed some more medicine. He'll be back soon."

Mac leaned his head against the headboard, wincing as he underestimated the wood as it collided with his brain. The thud echoed around in his mind for a few seconds, leaving him slightly dizzy. When the dizziness faded, he found that Dean handing him a couple of white pills and a glass of water.

Fear suddenly woke up, making his heart race. "Dean, where did you get these?" He took the pills from him.

Dean pointed at the bathroom. "They were in your cabinet," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Do you even know what they are?" Mac was angry. The children were in his care, and they could've been hurt. He forgot that Dean had been taught how to pick locks—childproof caps wouldn't hold the boy back.

"Yes, sir." Dean answered, his gaze forced straight ahead. He stood at attention, like a small soldier. "It's Tylenol, for your fever."

Mac looked at the pills in his grasp and the tiny 'Tylenol' imprints were apparent on each capsule. The flu symptoms were making it hard for him to think straight.

"How did you know that?" Mac stared at him, confused.

Dean bit his lip, "You told me." The boy swallowed reflexively, "When Sammy was sick…you told me that the Tylenol would help his fever." Dean looked at the floor, then raised his face towards the older man, "I read the bottle. The red bottle said it was for babies and small children. The other bottle said 'for adults'. Did I make a mistake?"

"No." Mac shook his head slowly. "You're right. I—just didn't want you to play with medicine if you didn't know what it was. It's dangerous. It could make you sick."

"I just wanted to help you feel better. I'm sorry." He slowly handed the doctor a glass of water. After he handed him the glass, Dean inched his way towards the door.

"Dean, wait. I'm sorry." Mac called out to him hoarsely. "You did a great job. Come back, _please_. I'm sorry. I'm not mad."

Dean turned back, eyebrows arched in suspicion. "You're not mad?"

"No, I'm not, Dean. Actually, I'm really proud of you. Thank you for taking care of me." Mac pulled at the wet washcloths that had been placed lovingly on his fevered skin. "Did you do all of this?" He held up the cloth, smiling at the boy.

Dean climbed up on the bed and sat beside him. "Yes, sir."

Mac laughed lightly, happy. "And you learned just by watching and listening to me?"

Dean nodded, smiling too. "Uh huh."

Mac rubbed the boy's hair fondly. "So, what else did you learn?"

"Well, dad taught me a couple things. Like if you're bleeding, you hold pressure on the wound until it stops. If Sammy chokes, then you put him on his belly and hit his back hard until the food pops out. Don't buy anything that has a 'toxic' sticker on it, because Sammy might drink it on accident and it'll make him really sick. Stuff like that."

"Those are very good things to know, Dean. If you want, I could teach you a couple more things…" He watched the nine-year-old's face light up, excited.

"Really?" Dean smiled.

Mac smiled back, "Yes, really." He started coughing, and felt a small hand patting his back. "Thank you."

He heard the front door crash open and knew it was his teenager returning. His guess was proven right as Caleb walked into his bedroom, Sammy in tow. "Hey, Dad. You still look like crap."

"Caleb!" Mackland coughed. "Language!"

Caleb rolled his eyes at his father. "Sorry."

Sam quickly ran over to his brother and climbed up to sit beside him. Mac hid a smile behind his hand, quickly wiping at his face. Sam always followed his brother around…it was precious.

"Hi-ya, Mac!" The little boy excitedly yelled. The older boys winced at his volume; although everyone tried to teach Sam about the 'in-door' voice, it was a concept that the five-year-old always forgot in his excitement.

"Hi, Sammy."

"Caleb said that you're really sick. You didn't even wake up when I jumped on you! Dean yelled at me, though. And daddy called; he's coming home in a little bit. Pastor Jim's coming too. Pastor Jim said that he's going to make us some really good chicken soup. Then Caleb asked him to make pudding—and he said that he would. Caleb wants chocolate, but I like vanilla. Pastor Jim said that he'll make both and make it swirled!" The boy ran on without taking a single breath until his brother put a hand over his mouth.

"That's enough, Sammy. We've got to let Mac get some sleep." Dean pulled his little brother off the bed and towards the door. "Go into the kitchen and wait for me. I'll make us lunch in a minute." It was an order.

Dean turned towards Caleb, "Did you get the cough syrup?"

Caleb nodded, handing him the plastic bag. "Yeah, I got it, Dean." He shot his father a look that Mackland wasn't able to distinguish.

Mac watched under hooded eyes as Dean pulled out the red bottle, read the instructions, pulled off the small cap, and poured the appropriate amount completely concentrating on the task at hand before handing him the little medicine filled measuring cup.

He quickly downed the medicine as if he was taking a shot of alcohol, forcing himself not to make a face at the horrible taste. Dean gently took the cup from him, then handed him a glass of water, making sure to tell him to drink it all before taking the glass back and placing it on a tray that Mac only now saw was placed on the nightstand next to the bed. Dean then opened the drawer, then pulled out an herbal cough drop, unwrapped it, and then gave it to him. "It'll help your coughing," he explained. The boy waited for him to put the medicine in his mouth, then pulled up the covers, and pushed Caleb out the door. "Get some sleep, Mac. I'll make sure everyone leaves you alone."

Once the door closed, Mac sank down in the mattress and started laughing slash coughing. This was a side of Dean that he'd only seen when Sam was ill or hurt. John always joked that Dean was like a mother bear with her cubs. Dean always hovered around him when he was administering first aid to his father or little brother. He'd always assumed that Dean was just worried—now, he discovered that the boy was learning from him.

Watching him now made him hopeful.

Dean had in him the makings of a wonderful doctor.

John had trained his son, taken Caleb under his wings to teach him how to be a hunter—perhaps it was his turn to take Dean under his wings and teach him a few things.

He thought about it even as he slipped into a comfortable sleep. Dr. Winchester…_it had a nice ring to it_.

* * *

After a few hours of sleep, Mac felt well enough to head towards the bathroom to empty his filling bladder. After taking care of his urgent need, he washed his hands and grabbed his robe. He wrapped the robe around his waist, wincing at the arthritic feel of his hands. He was incredibly sore and felt twice his age as he hobbled towards the kitchen.

As he neared the common area, he heard sounds of children laughing. It made him smile, and walked in to see Sam and Dean having a 'tickle' war with Caleb. The two brothers were teaming up to sit on him and attacking his sensitive areas. Sammy had grabbed hold of his foot and was starting to pull off his sock. Caleb was on the ground almost crying from laughter.

John was there. He rolled his eyes at him. "If a couple of kids can take you down Reaves, then you don't stand a chance against the demons from hell."

Caleb stopped Sam by picking him up and attacking his neck. The little boy started squealing. Dean laughed at them both, then finally noticed the doctor watching them.

"Mac! You're awake. I'm sorry, were we too loud?" Dean asked him before jumping up to grab him by the hand. The boy pulled him over to the couch, then pulled a fleece blanket over his lap.

John smirked at him. "You look like crap, Mac."

"Language!" Mac barked at him, then started coughing.

A warm hand touched his shoulder and he looked up to see Jim watching him in concern. A cup of tea was pressed into his hands after the coughing jag ended. "We've been worried about you, Mackland. John and I were worried about Samuel getting worse—we hadn't considered that you'd get sick as well."

The boy in question crawled over to him and pressed against his leg. "I'm sorry, Mac. I didn't wanna make you sick. But don't worry, Dean'll make it better." He said it with complete conviction; the boy was in awe of his big brother, thought the sun rose and set with him…and no one, not even Dean, could convince him otherwise.

Mac patted the boy on the head with affection and watched as he scampered away to play pretend with his woobee bear. Dean sat next to his father; John was relaxed, his arm wrapped around his older son's shoulder. "Dean said that you had a fever of 103 this morning." At his confused look, John explained, "He took your temperature with the thermometer in the first aid kit. Glad you're feeling better."

Jim sat down next to the teenager, placing a cup of coffee in front of John and taking a cup of tea for himself. Caleb arched an eyebrow at the lack of coffee, but resigned himself to getting a bottle of juice from the refrigerator.

"How'd the hunt go?" Mac asked softly, taking a sip of tea to help ease his sore throat.

John shrugged, "Routine salt and burn. Nothing to write home about."

Jim huffed, "Of course, you'd say that! You weren't the one covered in ectoplasm!"

Caleb's ears twitched, he jumped up eagerly wanting to hear the story. "Who got covered in ectoplasm?"

The Knight sipped at his coffee with a smile on his face. "Oh, it's not important," he said it teasingly. The man was definitely in a good mood; it didn't happen often, but it put everyone at ease when he was. If John Winchester relaxed, everyone else could too.

Mac arched his eyebrow before pulling up the covers higher. He was still feeling cold—which was most likely a result of a low grade fever. "This must be good." He turned towards Jim with a questioning look.

Pastor Jim Murphy lounged against the couch. "John had decided that Harland Sawyer needed a little bit more field experience under his belt."

"Well," John rumbled, "He learned an important lesson, Jim."

Jim shook his head at the stubborn man, "What lesson was that?"

"Not to piss me off." John spelled it out. "Family ties to the Brotherhood means crap to me. I'm tired of hearing how he should've been the Knight. And I'm tired of him trying to push his son into my lap. I say he deserved to get his hands dirty."

Jim argued back, "I understand how you feel, but was it really necessary to lure him into a pool of ectoplasm?"

"Hey, it wasn't my fault he slipped into the pool. With those fancy thousand dollar shoes he wears, you'd think they'd have a non-slip sole." John smirked at the thought.

Mac blinked a few times, "He slipped into a pool of ectoplasm? How could ectoplasm accumulate to that extent?" Ectoplasm was usually found in small amounts in areas of ghostly activity.

John shrugged, still smirking, "Beats me."

Jim just shook his head at the man. "Honestly, neither of us wants to know."

"I do." Caleb butt in. "Can you teach me that?"

His mentor just shook his head, "In your dreams, kid."

Mac leaned back against the cushions, suddenly tired. He closed his eyes, and nearly jumped when a callused hand touched his forehead. "You have a fever, Mac." John's voice was surprisingly soft. "You should go back to bed." He wanted to argue that he was fine when the choice was taken from him. John gripped his arm and pulled him to his feet. His presence was solid behind him as he was assisted back into the bedroom. Mac sat at the edge of his bed, looking up at the man who'd somehow become family to him—had become a brother.

John handed him a couple more capsules of medicine, before indicating that he should lie down. The doctor ignored him for a moment.

Mac rubbed his face wearily, as he watched John pull up a chair and sit in front of him. "I'm sorry about all of this, Mac. We'll be out of your hair…"

The man waved away his words. "Don't worry about it, John. The flu is bad this time of year; I probably would've caught it at work…"

"Something wrong?" John was concerned, "You want to go to the hospital?" John moved towards the phone, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"No, I'll be _fine_, John." Mac stressed. "I want to talk to you about Dean."

John sat back, startled at the turn of the conversation. "What did he do? I hope that he wasn't too much trouble…"

Mac stopped him, "No. John, that's not what I mean. He didn't do anything wrong…he—John—your son's extraordinary. He's incredibly intelligent."

"I know, Mac. His teachers all say the same; he just doesn't apply himself unless he's comfortable with the people around him."

"Do you know that he took care of me? Dean, not Caleb. He was able to piece together enough medical knowledge to know exactly what to do to help me. He knew what each medicine was used for and was able to measure the exact amount to give me—based on the information he'd gathered watching me treat Sam. That's amazing, John. He's only nine years old." Mac stopped when he became short of breath.

John patted his back awkwardly, "Jeez, Mac. Breathe already. You've really gotta cut your lectures short sometime. Cut to the chase. What's your point?"

Mac blinked up at him, "You really don't see it?"

"See what?" John spread his arms out in exasperation.

"Dean's potential." Mac looked incredulously at him.

John only smiled at him. "I think that I know my son."

"Do you, John?" Mac asked, "The boy has an unlimited potential—with the proper education…if he felt comfortable in one place…"

"No." John was succinct, immediate. "We aren't going to argue about this, Mackland. They're my children and they're staying with me."

Mac put his hands up in surrender. "Alright," he coughed, "but, still… you have to think of their future."

John handed him a glass of water, "I have. But I'm not going to stop until I find the thing that killed Mary. Once it's defeated…that's when I'll settle down. That's when the boys'll have a home."

"What about Dean?" Mac asked.

John stared at his friend for a while. If Mac were any other person, he would've dragged his kids out of the house and never looked back. He didn't need anyone questioning his parenting. But Mackland had let him into his home, had helped him with his traumatized son, shared his son's life with him—allowed him to mentor him, train him to be a hunter—there was no way that he could cut the man out of the life of his boys. There was no way that Dean would allow it. The boy was incredibly protective of his family—and those he considered family. It was obvious that the doctor was now included—the way that he cared for Mac when he was sick spoke volumes to his father. He didn't want to hurt him by taking him away from someone he loved, and someone who loved him back enough to fight for his future.

"Listen, Mac. I know you want the best for Dean and Sammy. You just have to trust me—I know all about Dean's potential." He sat silent for a few minutes worrying at the gold wedding band, "Sometimes, I think Mary'd be so disappointed in me. She wouldn't want this for our boys, but I've got no other way to protect them. It's what I gotta do to survive. But you see, Dean…he's not like me. He wants to help people—he wants to protect them. You talk about his potential—about him going to school, filling up his brain with talk of college and medicine—but, you don't see everything. That boy," John pointed towards the living area, "He'll grow up better than all of us. Hell, he's already better than all of us."

Mac nodded, "He'll be a good man." With that said the doctor pulled up his legs on the bed and lay down on top of the covers.

John stood up and walked over to the door. He stood at the doorway, and looked back, nodding silently.

"Yeah, he will be."

* * *

THE END


	9. Soldiers or Children?

_**Author's Note**__: I just wanted to write a quick cute one-shot… yeah, right. When the heck have my stories ever been considered short? LOL._

**Soldiers or Chidren?**

- **Author:** Sensue  
- **Summary:** Brotherhood AU. Parents often fight to protect their children. Mackland Ames and John Winchester disagree on the method. (Prior to "The Password" By Tidia)  
- **Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural: the series or either of the two hot guys in it. Wish I did, especially Jensen Ackles. The Brotherhood AU was developed by Ridley C. James and Tidia.  
- **Rating:** TV-14

--  
_1987  
Albany, NY_

Mackland Ames stared at the man in front of him and tried not to let his mouth fall open. "I'm sorry… could you repeat that? I think you just told me that you plan on leaving your eight year old child alone in a motel room to watch over his four year old brother while you go on a hunt!"

John Winchester was truly an imposing sight. He had his arms crossed over his chest, the muscles in his jaw twitching in a contained anger. Mac often wondered what would happen if the newly appointed Knight finally released his rage… he feared the outcome, especially since he'd met the boys.

"I'm telling you again, Mac, stay out of it! This is my family." John practically growled at him. He stood protectively in front of his children. Dean was sitting on the furthest bed away from the motel room door, his arms wrapped protectively around his squirming little brother; it was the bed the two children shared.

Mac noticed Dean's reaction and forced himself to calm down. He didn't want to scare the boys. He took in a deep breath and put out his hands. Slowly, he put his hand on John's wrist. "John… listen. There's no need for this. I would be happy to arrange—"

John pulled away from the touch. "No! You're not going to arrange anything. Dean is fully capable of watching Sammy for a couple of days."

Those words made the Scholar's heart freeze. A cold creep rushed through his veins as the implication sunk in. His breath left him in a huff. He spoke in a shocked whisper, "Are you saying that you've left them alone for a couple of days _before_? Do you have any idea what could've happened to them? My God, John. _They're children_…"

"They are_ my_ children, Mackland. And I will raise them the way I deem appropriate. I'm not going to argue with you about it!" John roared, making the boys jump. Sam stopped trying to squirm away from his big brother and instead tried to crawl inside of his skin. Dean just held him tighter.

Dr. Ames refused to back down. "They won't be your children for long if anyone finds out that you've been leaving them alone in an empty motel room for days on end! Do you want them to get taken away from you? Do you want them to get separated? What the hell are you thinking?" Mac shouted back, his usual control slipping as the real world consequences of John's decisions flooded him with fear.

With those words having been said, Mac suddenly realized exactly what would happen if John's rage boiled over… His body collided against the dresser hard; he could feel the bruises already starting to form from the cornered edges of the furniture dug into his hip. He fought with the crazed man, breaking the hold that he had around his neck with a sharp jab into his solar plexus.

Once he'd gotten back his breath and the stars cleared from his sight, he finally heard the hysterical screams of the toddler in the room. Instantly, both men were ashamed of their actions—especially in front of the children.

They were both still on the ground, recovering, when the door flew open and Caleb ducked inside. He threw down the armful of snacks that he'd gotten out of the vending machine outside on the corner table, giving the older men on the ground a harsh glare, then ran over to the bed, completely ignoring the 'adults'.

Caleb, at that moment, seemed older than his sixteen years. He quickly picked up the baby and took the older boy by the hand. He was whispering to them quietly, saying things that only the three of them could hear before announcing quietly that they were going to go to Pastor Jim's farm. Reaves picked up the phone and dialed for a cab. He motioned for Dean to grab their backpacks and led the children out of the room, slamming the door behind them. The teen shook his head at the scene. Even from across the parking lot, he heard the angry shouts of the two men that he considered his heroes. For the first time, he was disappointed in them. They should've known better than to say those things in front of Dean.

Sam, well, he was still too young to understand everything; he'd most likely started crying because the two men he loved were fighting—but, Dean… he'd get nightmares. Losing his little brother was Dean's worst fear come to life. It was something that Caleb understood. The real fear of losing ones family was one that tied the both of them together. Dean had lost his mother around the same age that he had lost both of his parents—and his unborn sibling.

Caleb walked them over to the bench by the front office to wait for the cab. He sat down, pulling the two little boys into his lap. He rubbed Sammy's back and hair until his crying slowed to a hiccupping sniffles. "It's okay, Sammy. Everything's okay." He pulled Dean into a light embrace, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him against his chest. He began to get worried when Dean just stared out into space, not saying a word.

"You okay, Deuce?" Caleb asked him gently, trying to get the kid snap out of the fog he seemed to be in.

When Dean didn't answer him, Sammy stared whimpering again. His eyes filled up and he prepared himself to start crying again. Thankfully, the heavy breathing was enough to jar Dean out of his daze and quickly give Sam the attention he was craving. He held out his arms, and Sam came to him without hesitation, quickly crawling into his lap and snuggling against him. "Sorry, Sammy," Dean said.

The older boy just held them against him as the yellow cab finally pulled up. The car honked its horn impatiently. It was then that Dean finally realized Caleb's intention. His eyes grew wide, "where are we going? Are you going to take us away from daddy?"

Caleb gently extracted his arm away from the boys, then kneeled down in front of them. "We're going to Pastor Jim's. And no, I'm not taking you away from your daddy. We're just going for the weekend. John and Mac will meet us there after they go on their hunt."

Dean lifted his face in defiance, staring into the older boy's eyes to see if he was being lied to. "You promise, Damien?"

"Hey, kid. You want a ride or not?" The cab driver came out of his car and put his hands on his hips. "I ain't got all day."

Caleb refrained from giving the jerk the finger in front of the baby. "Give me a second, dude!" He yelled back at him.

"I promise, Dean… I'm not taking you away from your dad. You'll see him in a couple of days… like you'd planned, except I'll be watching the both of you," Caleb explained.

Sammy spoke up softly, a thumb planted in his mouth. "You're going to babysit?" It was muffled, but understandable.

Reaves rolled his eyes at being called a babysitter, but nodded in agreement. It was easier than explaining that their fathers were idiots and needed a cool-down period. "Okay, let's go guys." He picked up their bags and threw them into the trunk of the cab.

It was then that the older men came out of the motel room, guilt and shame clearly read in their expressions.

Mac walked over to the cab driver and held out a Benjamin. "Drive safety, please." He looked the man in the eyes, "You'll stop at every stop sign, every red light from here to the airport…" He dangled the cash in front of the man until he got an appropriate response.

The greasy looking guy snapped up the bill and gave a wide smile. "They'll be safer than a chick with a mother hen. Trust me." He jammed the bill in his front pocket, then opened the door for the boys.

John glared at the show of wealth, but refrained from fighting in front of the boys again. He ran his hands through his hair before giving Sammy a hug and patting Dean on the head. "Dean, you look after your brother… make sure he doesn't get into trouble, okay? Caleb's in charge so don't give him a hard time."

Dean nodded, straightening his shoulders before replying, "Yes, sir."

John smiled at the appropriate response. "Now, what's the rule?"

"Shoot first, ask questions later." The little boy said automatically in an almost robotic tone. It had the doctor bristling with anger… he clenched his teeth to keep from yelling at their father.

John continued, "Okay. I'll meet you at Pastor Jim's in a couple of days… Be good." He gave his sons a pointed look, then helped them get settled into the back of the cab.

Caleb walked to sit shotgun next to the driver, when his arm was grabbed. "What?"

John wasn't smiling anymore. "Don't give me attitude, kid. The only reason I'm letting you take them is because Mac and I have issues to work through and I don't want them around for it."

The teen huffed at him, "Whatever, man."

"I'm not finished! You're to watch out for the boys, keep them safe." John instructed. Suddenly, the man's eyes grew cold; he gripped the younger boy's arm tight. "Just because you think you're a man now—doesn't give you the right to interfere with my family. If you ever pull this shit again, Junior, I'll have your hide."

Caleb's eyes hardened against the threat. "Yes, sir." He grit out, yanking his arm away from the Knight. "If that's all, we'll be going."

John nodded, then walked back to the motel room—leaving the doctor with his son for a few moments. Mac took in a deep breath, then hugged his son quickly, patting him on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Caleb. Thank you for putting them first. I'm ashamed to have forgotten that…"

Caleb gave his dad a cheeky smile. "Yeah, well, you are getting old."

The 'old man' rolled his eyes. "Take care of yourself, son. And take care of them—try to have some fun together… just, let them be kids for a couple of days, son."

"Okay," Caleb nodded. "Dad—listen—I know that you're trying to help, but, they're not like us. John—he's not like _you_. He's just trying to protect them, you know."

Mac licked his lips, "Caleb, he's treating Dean as if he were a soldier. He's only eight—and he knows how to use a gun…"

"I know, Dad. I helped him learn…" Caleb gently told his father. "They aren't safe, Dad. The world isn't safe anymore… even if they knew nothing about the supernatural evil out there, the places that they stay—places like this," Caleb motioned to the dark motel, pointing out the drug dealers and prostitutes that were walking the corner, "aren't safe. John's doing the best that he can. You know that they can't afford to stay in a two hundred dollar a night hotel room, even with all of the credit card scams; he's a hunter—and the job he does doesn't pay. He's protecting all of us—so, maybe you could give the guy a break." Caleb gave his father a smile, "Or at least, try and put yourself in his shoes. What would you do if you were John Winchester?"

His father just stood there with his mouth open. It was the first time that Caleb had ever rendered the older man speechless. He watched the emotions flicker across Mac's face before squeezing his shoulder and climbing into the cab. "Be careful, Dad. And good hunting."

"Thank you. Be safe. Have fun." Mac called out as the car was pulling away from the parking lot. He gave them one last wave before trailing back into the motel room where the Winchester family had resided. Caleb had given him something to consider as he tried to make sense of John Winchester. The man was an enigma. The fact that his son looked up to him still amazed the doctor. John Winchester embodied the terms 'discipline' and 'authority'; things that Caleb shunned and fought against since his parent's death. Additionally, the Knight's obsession with finding his wife's killer was worrisome, to say the least. He truly didn't know what to make of him.

When he walked back into the seedy motel room, John was there…waiting for him. John nodded towards the bed across from where he moved to sit. "We need to talk." The Knight started.

Mac nodded, running a hand across his face before sitting down across from him. "Yes, we do…" He trailed off, then continued when the other man didn't speak, "John, what are you doing?"

"I'm protecting my children." John stated matter-of-factly.

The Scholar stared at him, "I'm trying to understand your logic behind that, John. How are you protecting them by leaving them alone?"

John hit his fist on the night table next to him, "I'm teaching them how to be independent—not to rely on anyone but themselves."

"Dean is only eight years old! He needs to rely on _you_. Doesn't he deserve a childhood? Doesn't he deserve to dream? To play? To not have to constantly worry about taking care of his little brother?" Mac was impassioned, trying to convey his point of view.

John toyed with his wedding band, his voice now dropping. "I would give anything to go back in time—stop that _Thing _from murdering my Mary… to give Dean back his innocence. To give both of them their mom back, give them a home… but I can't. Now, all I can do is hunt! To keep this from happening to someone else's family! What do you want me to do, Mac? Hide my head up my ass and pretend it didn't happen? To go back to Lawrence, go back to my garage and work a nine-to-five job? Pretend that everything is _normal_? Well, it's not. And it'll never be again!"

Mac tried to remain calm; raising his voice would only infuriate the man. "I didn't ask you to pretend. All I want you to do is see that your boys are still children…they need security. And, I don't mean the one that you provide with a shotgun! They need to feel safe, knowing that you're there when they need you."

John arched his eyebrow, "I'm doing the best I can. And you know what? I could give a rat's ass about if I live up to your high standards. I'm not going to raise my sons to be ignorant about the world—the real world, not some fantasy that most people have managed to delude themselves into thinking is real. There's evil out there—and I'm not going to stop until I've killed that son of bitch that murdered my wife!" John's chest heaved as he struggled to contain himself. "I'm promise you that, Mac."

"I see." Mac said thoughtfully. It was starting to become clear to the doctor that John Winchester had put his obsession with hunting first, and his young family second. "And the boys will hunt with you, is that it? Your plan is to raise them as hunters? To teach Dean how to '_shoot first and ask questions later'_? Instead of reading Sammy bedtime stories, you'll teach him exorcisms? John, do you really want their lives to revolve around the hunt?"

"It'll only be for a little while…after I hunt it down and kill it, we'll settle down."

Mac countered sharply, "What if you don't? You don't even know what killed her. You haven't found a single trace of it. What if you spend your entire life after it, and never find it?"

John's eyes hardened as did his posture, "I **will** find it!"

"For your children's sake, I hope you do…" Mac let the conversation end. The man was stubborn; there was no getting through to him. And for the sake of their newly formed Triad, they would have to work together, have to trust each other. Just this once, on this point, Mac backed down. As much as it hurt him as a father to see a parent treat their children like small soldiers, they were still _his_ children.

It was hard to let it go…to put it from his mind, however, as he remembered the day he met the silent four year old and his baby brother.

--

Caleb sat on the couch watching television. He was just getting over a truly horrible case of the flu—and he was milking it for all it was worth. It wasn't often that he was allowed to sit and watch television for more than an hour. Thankfully, his father, the doctor, recommended that he get plenty of rest. He'd ignored Mac's initial recommendation in order to practice for the karate tournament and ended up falling flat on his face. The Martial Art Masters had called his father and Mac had immediately put him on bed rest, leaving him with nothing to do but watch television.

Mac had called into his offices and told them that he was going to stay home with his bedridden son. So, for once, it was quiet, only the sounds of Caleb's residual sniffling and coughing and Mac flipping pages of a book in the air. The television was on low, a background noise—there was only so much daytime television a guy could take.

It was just one of those lazy afternoons, one that many people take for granted. But for the Ames family, it didn't happen often enough for them to let a moment slip them by. It was nice to just—spend the day together relaxing.

"What're you watching?" Mac asked halfheartedly as he sat down next to the boy and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"Three's Company." Caleb leaned into the embrace—for a short time he would stop fighting the urge to be grown up and 'cool'. He felt like shit and was tired. "It's an old episode—it's the same stuff over and over. Jack tries to go on a date; everyone thinks he's gay…Chrissy acts like an idiot." He sighed lazily, "There's _nothing _else to watch."

The older man laughed lightly, "All of these channels and still nothing to watch?" They both sat in comfortable silence, every once in while laughing at an inane comment made by the bubbly blonde.

They were both starting to doze off when there was a knock on the door. Caleb jerked in surprise. "Are you expecting someone?"

Mac shook his head, "No." He pulled his arm away from his son's back, then shook it frantically, trying to get the feeling back. "I'll get it."

The doctor wasn't sure who was going to be behind the door, but it definitely wasn't a door-to-door salesman. He pulled back slightly, looking up at the built man. Immediately, he would've pegged him for a hunter—if it weren't for the crying baby he was holding in his arms. The man's face was haggard, as if he hadn't slept for days. There was a slightly dangerous look about him as well. One that left Mac cautious. "May I help you?"

"I hope so." The man spoke, his voice gruff and slightly nasal. "My name is John Winchester. These are my sons, Sammy and Dean." Mac forced himself to look for the second child and was surprised to see a pair of shiny green eyes stare up at him from behind a muscular thigh. "Pastor Jim sent us. He said that you could help us."

Mac opened the door wider, motioning for the family to come inside. "Please, come in."

He led them towards the living room. "I'm Mackland Ames, but please, call me Mac."

"Dad?" Caleb called out hoarsely, "Who's at the door?"

"We have company, Caleb." Mac walked in view of his son, the small family trailing behind him uncomfortably. The baby hadn't stopped crying…his wails shattered the earlier quiet.

Caleb automatically swept the tissue covered coffee table clean into the small trash bin that had been beside him. The boy opened his mouth, "Who the _he_—?", then quickly shut it after being glared at by both of the older men. "Hello. Welcome to our home. I'm Caleb. Who are you?" He recited in a monotone voice, rolling his eyes at his father—who was beaming at him for actually repeating the stupid phrase the '_proper and dignified_' way.

Mac started the introductions, "John Winchester, this is my son, Caleb. Caleb this is Mr. Winchester. That's Sam and Dean is the one hiding behind his father. Pastor Jim sent them."

Dr. Ames was by no means raised improper, as he settled his guests down and brought over some tea, milk and cookies. By this time, the little boy—Dean had taken the baby from his father and was rocking him. Immediately, the baby calmed his crying and nestled into the warm arms that held him.

Caleb sat at his side, staring at the burly man. He was an imposing sight to a teen, Mac guessed. Hell, he thought, he's an imposing sight to anyone. "What can I do for you, Mr. Winchester?"

John rubbed at his jaw for a moment, staring at him, judging his worthiness. A war brewed in his mind; _was it worth trusting this stranger (letting him into his life—his problems), if he could help his son?_

Mac sensed the hesitation. "Why don't we let Caleb take the children into the kitchen? Perhaps they'd like some more cookies?" He gave the little boy a gentle smile.

"No!" John barked. Caleb jumped, reactively flinching at the tone. Mac put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. "My kids stay with me."

Dr. Ames quickly assessed the situation in his mind: the man seemed unstable and volatile. "Alright," he placated the man. He looked at his son, "Caleb. Why don't you go to your room?" He would rather his son were out of harm's way if the man were to suddenly become violent.

John seemed to realize the intent, and put up a hand. "Wait!" He rubbed his face, "I'm sorry. This wasn't the way I'd intended…" He stared at the teen; the boy looked as if he was ill. "I'm sorry, Caleb—was it? I didn't mean to scare you."

Caleb pulled himself out of his father's personal space—one that he'd been pushed into for protection. "You didn't scare me!" He was insulted at the notion. Caleb Reaves didn't get scared. Of course, the effect was ruined as his voice cracked and gave him an adolescent squeak that he'd prayed to lose as a pre-teen.

Winchester smirked at him, "Yeah, right, kid." The boy looked as if he was going to argue, but a coughing fit stopped him cold.

"Excuse me, Mr. Winchester." Mac nodded to his guests, "I'll be right back. Please, make yourselves at home." The doctor gently pulled his ill son away from the small children and pushed him towards his room.

By then, Caleb had gotten his bearings and started to fight—wanting to stay and hear the stranger's story. Mac patted him on the head and used the common phrase used by parents everywhere… "You can when you're older."

John shot a look at his boys. Sammy, thankfully, was happy with his big brother and remained quiet. Dean—John could tell the boy felt uncomfortable in the new surroundings, around new people. But, of course, he was silent—unable to let himself out of his self imposed shell. It was why he hoped that the doctor would help him.

About ten minutes later, the doctor came back into the living area and found his three guests sitting on the couch. John was feeding the baby his bottle, leaning his head tiredly against the back of the couch, while Dean leaned into his father's arm and stared at his brother as he suckled, nibbling on one of the oatmeal cookies he'd left on the coffee table.

Mac nodded to the family, moving slowly into their field of view. "I'm sorry for the delay. My son has the bad case of influenza… I was just getting him settled." He sat on the chair across from them, waiting.

Sammy must've had his fill of the bottle, because he threw it to the ground when he was done. The bottle hit the white carpet and splattered lightly through the opening. Mac forced himself not to wince.

Dean lifted his head, and quickly climbed down the couch to get the bottle for his brother and wiped up the mess with a tissue before it set. All without saying one word, or making a single sound.

It was what put Ames' nerves on edge, the lack of noise the family made. Even the baby was silent, he'd expected babbling or even a 'dada', but there was nothing.

When the man spoke suddenly, Ames almost jumped in surprise. "Jim Murphy says that he trusts you with his life. He says that you're a good man—that you help people." His voice was rough, cause by lack of use.

Mac smiled, "That was kind of him to say." He relaxed his body purposefully, hoping that it would put his guest at ease. "Are you a member of Pastor Jim's church?"

"No," John smiled back slightly, "I was introduced to him by Missouri Mosley." He rubbed a hand across his jaw before staring at his sons for a moment. "I just want you to know that this is hard for me—I'm not the type of man to ask for help. If it weren't for my boys…I wouldn't be here."

"I can understand your reluctance to ask for help, but please, let me assure you…if it's within my power, I would gladly help you and your family." Mac stated softly. "Talk to me. What happened?"

The man looked at his wedding band for a while, before nodding. "My wife… she…was killed. _Something_ killed her in Sammy's nursery. She was…pinned to the ceiling, bleeding, when the fire broke out. The nursery just exploded in flames." As he spoke, the little boy put his hands over his ears and started rocking back and forth, holding his little brother to his chest protectively. John slowed his rocking by putting an arm across his shoulders, "Dean, he saved his little brother. Got him out of the house." He said it with pride, smiling gently at the little boy. "I tried to save Mary, but I couldn't. Since that day, Dean's been quiet. He just—won't talk."

Mac quickly switched into what his son called 'doctor-mode', "Was he examined after the fire? Did he suffer from smoke inhalation? Did he lose consciousness at any point? Anything that would indicate that the lack of speech was caused by physical injury?"

John took in a deep breath, "No, he didn't lose consciousness, but he did inhale a little smoke. He was given oxygen at the scene, then at the hospital treated with a couple of inhalers to open his airway. We just stayed the night—they released all of us the next morning. Dean was given a clean bill of health, physically… I'm ashamed to say, I didn't even notice that he'd stopped talking until after the funeral. I was…in shock." He pulled his arm away from his son as he grew pale, then leaned over, holding his head in his hands.

Mac stood and quickly crossed the distance between the seats. Dean was staring with wide eyes at the scene. "It's okay," Mac said softly. He rested his hand on the shuddering back, trying to comfort the grieving father. "It's not your fault."

"I just…don't know what else to do. I just want my little boy to feel safe again. I want to hear his voice again." John lifted his tear stained face to the doctor. "Please, help us."

"I'll do my best to help you, John. I promise."

--  
_1987  
New Haven, KN  
_

"Do you remember when you came to me, asking for help—for Dean?" Mac asked John, on the drive to the farmhouse. John's impala practically purred as she entered the highway.

John turned his eyes away from the road to stare at his friend. "Didn't we already have this conversation? Back in Albany?"

Mac faced his friend, indicating for him to keep his eyes on the road first before continuing, "You came to me, crying, upset that Dean was so traumatized that he stopped talking to you. In that moment, you would've done anything to see him smile again, to see him play, or laugh, or just chatter away like he used to. I just—wanted to remind you of that moment, John, before your ideas of 'training' them take away what you had once prayed for."

John huffed, "What are you going on about, Mac?"

Biting the inside of his cheek, Mac grit out, "I'm talking about treating them like soldiers—about taking away their childhood. I just—don't want you to regret the choices that you've made ten years from now."

"I'm doing the best that I can, Mac. It's the only way that I know how to protect them." John took the exit that would lead them to the kind Pastor's farm. "I won't regret protecting them. I'm their father."

Mac nodded, "Yes, you're their father. They love you—they always will. Dean would jump off a cliff if you asked him to, John. Dean would know that he shouldn't, but he would do it for you." He let the thought trail off, hoping that the other man would just listen to what he was saying.

John pulled into the front of the farm, parking the car. The engine shut down with barely a protest. He shot a look at the doctor. "If I asked Dean to jump off a cliff, it would be for his own good. He'd understand that and do it without hesitation."

Mac shook his head, "That's what I'm afraid of."

John opened the car door and climbed out. "Get over it, Mac. I know what I'm doing." He walked over the the passenger side, waiting until Mac got out. "Listen, Mac. I know we're different. And I know that you don't understand my methods, but DO NOT contradict me in front of the kids. Any of them—yours or mine. Let me be the bastard that I am… let me make my mistakes, we can talk about them until your head explodes—but, don't do it in front of them. Never again—alright?"

Mac arched an eyebrow, "Is this apart of that military mindset that you're starting to instill in my son? The chain of command?"

John stared straight ahead, and answered with a clipped "Yes."

"You're right. I don't understand you. But, I agree that we shouldn't disagree in front of the children. So, I'll agree to your terms." Mac put himself in his Brother's field of view. "Don't make me regret this decision, John." Mac walked away, but paused before entering the farmhouse. "You know, I think of Dean and Sam as my own, sometimes…just as much as Caleb. I love them and want to protect them too. Let me know if you need any help. I'll always be there for all of you." Mac smiled, "You are my brother, after all."

John walked up behind him, a half-smile gracing his lips. "Yeah, I know. I have to put up with you now. I wonder what Jim would say if he saw us fight earlier."

"Huh. Well, if you think my 'lectures' are bad, you haven't heard one of Pastor Jim's." Both men laughed at that.

Mac walked into the farmhouse, then stopped, heart-in-throat. His eyes widened and he immediately reached for a gun. "Shit." The doctor swore. John was right behind him.

"Caleb! Are you alright? How many?" John demanded as he quickly untied the boy from his bonds.

Mac quickly regained his senses as he gently untied the gag from his son's mouth. Once the boy was free, he gathered him to his chest and hugged him.

"This is consecrated ground, John. How the hell did they get in?" Mac demanded to know as he frantically checked over the trembling boy with his hands, looking for any injury.

John scouted the room, looking for intruders. "Where are the boys, Caleb?" Fear nearly caused him to panic as he didn't find his children.

Caleb, who'd been staring at them trembling—slowly fell to the ground and started non-stop laughing. "Haha ha ha. They're sleeping. In their room." The laughter continued.

Mac tried to comfort his son, but found himself pushed away. "My god, John. He's hysterical." He was about to go for the phone to dial for an ambulance, when a sleepy Sammy Winchester climbed down the stairs in his footy pajamas, blinking and yawning. His face was covered with different colors—presumably marker.

When Caleb saw him, he stopped laughing and ran over to the child. Quickly, he picked him up and held him tight.

"Sammy, we need to have a little talk about you listening to your devil of a big brother!" Caleb started. "Next time, when I ask you to untie me—don't go to sleep first! Got that, runt?"

"But, you're the cowboy! Dean says that the Indians tie up the cowboys and scalp them!" Sammy explained as a rational four-year-old.

It was then that Mac noticed the dark brown hair that covered the carpet where Caleb had been tied up. Upon further investigation, the rope that was used to tie up his son was colored jump rope. The puzzle was starting to form in his mind as to what transpired during their hunt.

A few seconds later, Dean came down the stairs looking for his little brother. Dean, too was covered in 'war-paint' and was upset that their 'prisoner' had escaped his bonds.

He put his hands on his hips. "How did you get out, Damien?"

Caleb put down the younger of the two, then stepped up as close to the older boy as possible without knocking him down. "I'm never playing 'Cowboys and Indians' with you, EVER AGAIN! Got that? Look at what you did to my hair! Do you know how long it took for me to grow it out!?"

Dean was just as forceful, "You looked like a girl anyway! You needed it cut. You should say 'thank you'."

John took that moment to jump in, his gun still in his hands. He held up the gun, put the safety back on. "Hold up. Dean, did you tie up Caleb?"

Dean looked at his father innocently, "Yeah, but we were just playing. It's not like we _really_ scalped him or anything."

John looked at Mac, then back at Dean. "How do you know about scalping anyway?"

Dean pointed at Caleb, "Caleb let us watch, "The Indian Raiders", Daddy. It was so cool. The Indians scalped the cowboys and stole their stuff…"

Caleb shrunk back as the boy ratted him out. "Deuce! Shut it!"

John bit his lip, "Bed, now! All of you!" He pointed to the stairs. He watched as Caleb picked up the sleeping little boy, and took Dean by the hand and guided them up the stairs, grumbling their 'good-night's'.

Once the children were safely in their own beds, did both of the men stare at each other and start laughing.

"Hahahaha." Mac gasped, "I've been trying to get him to cut his hair for months now! Now, he doesn't have a choice! I should have thought of tying him up!"

John laughed with him, "Children… It was just Cowboys and Indians, Mac. I was—I'm just glad that it was just a game."

Mac smiled, "Me too." He put the gun back in its holster, thankful that they didn't have to use it.

"You know, I think as long as Caleb is in their lives, we won't have to worry about them not having a childhood. Your son—you've done a great job with him. He's…well, I trust him to watch over them, protect them. He treats them like children; gives them something to laugh about. And they love him for it." John swallowed, "I'm thankful that he's in their lives—I'm thankful you are too. I don't know what I would've done without the both of you."

Mac patted his friend on the shoulder, wiping at his eyes. "You would've done fine. You are a good father—just don't forget that they're children. Okay?"

As the sounds of laughter from upstairs echoed in the stairwell, John smiled. "I won't."

--

The End

_Well, what'd you think?_

_This one was different than the others that I've written… a little unsure about it, but like it in the long run. (Would really like your opinion, so please review.)_


	10. Bonding Moments

Caleb Reaves was in hell

_**Author's Note**__: Just a quick one-shot. Hopefully you think it's funny._

_Bonding Moments_

- **Author:** Sensue  
- **Summary:** Brotherhood AU. Cullen wants to bond with Caleb. He takes him out to meet some of his friends.  
- **Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural: the series or either of the two hot guys in it. Wish I did, especially Jensen Ackles. The Brotherhood AU was developed by Ridley C. James and Tidia.  
- **Rating:** TV-14

--

Caleb Reaves was in hell.

Truly and utterly _in hell_.

The room was dark and filled with smoke, making his eyes water—although he hid it well, wiping at them before tears slid down his cheeks. It was loud, filled with drunken laughter and jokes that were _so inappropriate_. There was a waitress, handing out drinks and getting her behind pinched at every table. Caleb noticed that it didn't even faze the young woman—she must've been used to it by now.

A warm hand on his shoulder pushed him forward, patting him when he dragged his feet a bit. "Come along, son. You'll enjoy this."

Caleb rolled his eyes. 'Sure, I'll enjoy this,' he thought, 'As much as anyone enjoys a bunch of dirty old men.' To his grandfather, he gave a fake smile. "Sure, Grandpa. I can't wait." It wasn't like he had anything else to do on a Friday night—like go to a rave party or anything.

Cullen Ames laughed at him, "Well, you don't have to be so grumpy, Caleb. Relax. I want you to meet my friends. You know, not everyone gets invited to this Lodge. It's very exclusive... A sort of millionaire's club."

The waitress darted directly towards the couple, her breasts showing through the tight white buttoned down shirt. She leaned over to hand Cullen a drink, brushing against him ever so slightly. "Hi, handsome. Your usual?"

Caleb watched in a horrified disgust as his grandfather leaned over and kissed the young woman on the corner of her lip. "Thank you, sweetheart." The girl blushed with the attention, before turning towards the boy.

"Oh, who's this?" The woman crooned, leaning over to pinch Caleb's cheek. "He's so cute."

He pushed her hand away from his face. "I'm cute? Are you kidding me? What are you—like five years older than me? Give me a break!"

Cullen laughed heartily, the room turning their attention towards them. "This is my grandson, Caleb. Caleb, this is Miss Katherine. She's worked here for quite a long time—long enough to know my all of my favorites. She takes care of me. Don't you, sweetheart?"

"Of course, Mr. Ames." Much to Caleb's shock, she curtsied—showing off more of her _attributes_. "Can I get you anything, Caleb? Fruit punch? Or maybe some KoolAid?"

He glared at the waitress—then upped the ante. "How about you get me a beer?" If the stupid girl was planning on treating him like a little kid, he'd show her.

She almost squeaked. "Beer? I don't think that--."

Cullen chose that moment to step in. "I don't think that one beer will hurt the boy. Bring it to our table. Thank you, Katherine."

"Yes, Mr. Ames. Right away." With that she led them to what Caleb believed was Cullen's usual table. The table was already full—but another chair was quickly brought over and a place setting was set up for him. Cullen shook hands with everyone at the table, introducing his grandson.

Caleb looked around the table of eight. Most of them were old men—some of them older than his grandfather. One of them looked to be in his twenties or early thirties, his hair flopping all over the place as he sat next to his father. He was quickly introduced as Donny Trump, the son of Fred Trump. His grandfather explained that the family was in Real Estate.

The rest of the men were mostly lawyers—one was a federal judge. They were served caviar, escargot, and fillet minion, which Caleb only picked at until Cullen asked the waitress to bring him a gourmet steak burger with homemade spiced fries. They drank more than Bobby Singer on his worst day and they smoked thick Cuban cigars which filled the air with its rancid odor. His grandfather handed him one of his, but refused to light it for him. It didn't matter; Cullen was trying not to let him feel left out and worked to include him in everything.

Most of the conversation revolved around Donny's offer to the city to restore Wollman Rink in Central Park. The others ridiculed him for offering to do it for free, laughing at his inexperience. They called him an idiot with 'no business sense' and tried to talk his father into giving a desk job in a quiet corner of the Trump Organization where he couldn't screw up. The rest of the time they joked about the guy's wife—who apparently was a drop dead Olympic bombshell from Czechoslovakia. He felt sorry for the guy, Donny was taking it all in stride—as if he'd heard it every day of his life. The only thing he said is that one day—they'd all see; he'd be the richest man in the world. Caleb cracked up at that; it'd never happen.

Once lunch was over, the wait staff quickly cleared the table and set up an elaborate velvet cover over the top. Caleb was confused, but the mystery was solved as a cart full of poker cards, chips, and score cards were brought over.

"Caleb, my boy. This is why I love to come here. To spend time with friends, and to play one of the greatest games invented." Cullen shook the boy's shoulder. "I'm going to teach you how to play poker!"

It was on the corner of Caleb's mind to tell his grandfather that he already knew how to play, but the look in the older man's eyes stopped him. This was how his grandfather wanted to bond with him—so, he'd go along with it. So, he sipped at his watery beer and sucked on the end of his cigar as he listened to the older man as he explained each card and the rules of the game.

He was quick to learn, much to Cullen's surprise and they all started a friendly game. Judge Farris quickly turned his attention to the ignored boy. "Well, I suppose you'll be running the family business before long?"

It drew curious glances from the other men. Caleb squirmed under the attention. "Um, I haven't really given it much thought yet…"

Cullen intervened, "Don't harass my grandson. I'm still trying to convince him that business is in his blood. I don't want you all to scare him away." He said it in a joking manner as he drank a swig of brandy, swirling it around in his glass. The table laughed and the game resumed.

At first, Caleb played barely well enough to be the first one to fold. He watched each man as they bet, folded, lied, and bluffed their way through the game. Quickly, he discovered each man's tell—a wipe of the nose, a sip of their drink—and decided to play to win, the hunter way. The money was too good—these guys weren't playing with candy or dollars—they were playing in the grands.

He'd gone through folding earlier for another three rounds, before suddenly winning seven thousand dollars. Even Donny gapped at him in shock. He pulled the chips toward him, a huge smile on his face. "Thanks for dinner, guys. But, I think it's past my curfew, so we better head home, grandpa."

Cullen stood up, an indecipherable look on his face. He grabbed their coats, said goodbye to his friends and walked out with his arm around his grandson's shoulders. Caleb was still flipping through the wad of cash he'd won, smiling. They'd both climbed into the limo and the driver headed towards home.

Cullen stared at his grandson. "You know how to play poker. Don't you?"

Guiltily, Caleb nodded. "Sorry, grandpa. I just thought you wanted to teach me—so I didn't want to disappoint you."

The old man nodded in wonder, "You _hustled_ those men!"

With wide eyes, Caleb held out the wad of cash. "I'm sorry. You can give them back their money… just don't be mad at me."

The cash was ignored, "I'm not angry with you; I'm surprised. Hell, they deserved to be hustled—in case you didn't notice, most of my friends are snobs. They consider anyone who doesn't make less than two million a year poor _and lowly_. If I had known, we could've taken them for at least twenty thousand."

Cullen laughed, "Oh, well. Next time, then."

Caleb's eyes widened at the money, then at his grandfather, darting back and forth. "You mean, you want me to hustle your friends?"

"Well," Cullen was thoughtful, "Not if it's their birthday. We usually let them win on their birthday."

"What about those women? The waitress?" Caleb asked.

"Oh, they usually hang on our arms and let us hit on them with the slim hope that we might decide to be their 'sugar daddies'… I think that's the term." Cullen explained matter-of-factly. "Some of the men like to give them gifts—they like it, it makes them feel loved. It's a sad state of affair when you have to give gifts for someone to love you…"

"Yeah, that sucks." The boy commented. "As long as you don't go being a 'sugar daddy' to anyone near my age—It's cool."

The older man laughed heartily. "You know, I'm thinking we should go on another family vacation…"

Caleb sat up tall, excited, "Really?"

He was rewarded with a warm arm around his shoulder. He was squeezed tightly. "Yes, I'm thinking of Las Vegas…"

--  
The End

I just had to write this, since I read that Cullen and Caleb used to play poker. Mac used to warn his father not to let Caleb win more than a couple hundred at a time… so, I figured this was how it started.


	11. Priorities: Another Chick Flick Moment

_Author's Note: This is a true story… It happened to me this weekend. (Enjoy.) 'Cause I still feel like crap. _

**Priorities: AKA another Chick Flick Moment**

The ceiling had some kind of stain on it; the more he thought about it, the more that the stain seemed to be trying to tell him something. It was moving around in seemingly random shapes. He tried to tell it to slow down, but it wasn't listening to him—just kept moving around in small spirals. At one point, it looked like Odi from Garfield. He laughed lightly at it.

He pulled out one of his hands out of the covers and tried to reach for it. He abandoned the thought a moment later when his shaking arm refused to be held up for more than a moment. Not knowing why, he wanted to go back to sleep. Suddenly, he felt tired again, even though he hadn't even gotten out of bed yet. The alarm clock was ignored; too tired to even hit the snooze button, it continued to blast his morning choice of music. The morning show celebrities joked around about the current events as he half-heartedly dozed off.

Jerking at the sound of someone calling his name, he looked at the small black radio next to his bed. "Wow," he thought, "they called my name. Did I win something? I don't remember entering in a contest…"

They called his name again, and he remembered that he had to call them back. He reached for the phone, wincing when his wrist bumped against the nightstand and hit it with a force that knocked most everything from its resting place. The phone dropped to the carpet with a thud. He turned in the bed, struggling against the heavy wrappings that were restraining him. His heart drummed against his chest almost painfully, as he tried to get both of his arms free. With a cry, he pushed against the sheets and kicked them away.

When he was through, he lay against the pillow, sweat covered and gasping slightly trying to get his breath back. The stain was taunting him now—like an animated Odi, laughing at him. He closed his eyes, angry at it. "Don't laugh at me," he yelled at it.

The room was moving again, and he felt himself shifting position. He opened his eyes to see a blue and black dotted tie against his cheek. Reaching for it, he tried to use it to lever himself into a more upright position but it was quickly pulled out of his grasp.

"Stop, Caleb. You're choking me." The tie spoke. One of the blue dots had a mouth, like Pac-man. It was opening and closing its mouth and chased all of the other dots around, trying to eat them.

"Don't eat your friends. They're like you. You're a cannibal!" He gripped the tie tighter, bringing it up to his eye level, trying to talk some sense into Pac-man. The tie was pulled from his hands again roughly, but before he could get upset; it was limp and placed in his palm. He shook it a couple of times, trying to bring it to life again.

He felt warm hands gripping his face, and he brought his gaze up to a familiar set of eyes. "Hi, Mac. Where did you come from?"

"Can you hear me, son?" Mackland Ames asked, worriedly.

"Yeah, I hear you." Caleb yawned, and tried to flop back into bed.

"No, Caleb. You have to get up." Mac pulled him back up against his chest; he slipped a hand under his underarm and Caleb squirmed, ticklish.

"Where are we going? Did I win something? Are we going to Disney World?" The thirteen year old mumbled almost incoherently.

The boy was forced to walk down the hall, his adoptive father almost dragging him. He stopped midway, taking in a couple deep breaths. "What's wrong, Caleb?"

"I'm tired. Gotta catch my breath." The short distance from his bedroom to the hall exhausted him. He coughed weakly, then continued to shuffle along at Mac's insistence. What seemed to take all day, but was less than a minute later, he was in the spacious bathroom of their new New York City apartment.

Mac's previous lease had run out, giving the new family an opportunity to search around for a place that suited both of their needs. Caleb had wanted a room where he could blast his rock music without punishment, and Mackland had wanted the finer luxuries his wealth offered, including a hot tub. The man claimed that after a long day on his feet, all he wanted to do was soak out the muscle aches in the comfort of his own home. Caleb didn't even wait until the man was out of town before throwing a 'house-warming' party of his own. Mac allowed it, for once, and chaperoned to make sure that it wouldn't get out of hand. At the first sign of skinny-dipping, he called it a night and sent the youngsters home. Caleb was embarrassed by him, and refused to talk to him afterwards, keeping to his new bedroom.

He had almost no warning that the boy was sick. With the exception of his 'vision' and tension related headaches, Caleb was in great health. He'd woken to his normal morning routine, washing up, getting dressed, and making breakfast for the both of them. Caleb's alarm had gone off shortly after, and he'd been expecting Caleb to groan about how early it was, then eat everything on the table.

The alarm had been going off for over twenty minutes, without end. Caleb usually hit the snooze a few times before managing to crawl out of bed. When it was obvious that the radio wasn't going to turn off on its own, Mackland took the food off the stove and went into his son's room. He knocked on the door, and was completely ignored.

Calling out his name, he quickly realized that the boy was talking to someone else. He opened the door, dreading what he'd find behind it. He really didn't want to find his thirteen year old sneaking girls in his bedroom.

Much to his relief, there was no one else in the room, although he was tempted to search under Caleb's bed. He called his name again and was greeted with gibberish. He had no idea what he was talking about. In the space of thirty seconds, Caleb was talking about a dog on the ceiling and winning a contest on the radio.

As he neared his bed, the sight of Caleb's pale, yet sweaty skin and his obvious shortness of breath had him quickly reacting. He kneeled beside the bed, and pulled Caleb upright against his chest. Once contact was made, the doctor quickly was able to detect the fever causing the confusion.

Caleb clung to him, reaching up to grip his tie tightly as if examining it under a microscope. He was slowly choking him and he fought to get loose. "Stop, Caleb. You're choking me." His request wasn't comprehended and he listened as the boy started yelling into his tie. Finally, he was able to get loose and pulled the offending material off. Caleb looked as if he were going to cry, so he placed the tie in his hand.

Gently, he lifted Caleb's face into his hands to stare into his feverish eyes. "Can you hear me, son?"

The boy tried to get back into bed, but the doctor refused to let him. Using his strength, he pulled him on his feet, ignoring his hallucinations about going to Disney World and Pac-men cannibalizing each other. It was slow going as they made their way down the hall with Caleb stopping to catch his breath.

Once they were in the large bathroom, the doctor quickly started pulling off the boy's pajamas, all the while talking to him. He ran the tub, quickly filling it with cold water. Caleb looked at him with confusion, wrapping his arms around his chest to keep warm. The cartooned boxers he wore did nothing to help him.

"Mac? What's going on?" At that moment, he looked younger than his thirteen years. "Where are we?"

Mac slowly approached him, he gently grasped his hands and started leading him to the enormous tub. "You're sick, son. You have a fever, and I suspect pneumonia. So, you're going to soak in the tub until we get your temperature down. Alright?"

"No." Caleb was quick to disagree. He stared at the tub for a few seconds, blinking rapidly. "No, I don't want to swim." He tried to escape his father's grasp. "Please, don't."

The doctor kept his voice calm, confident. He also kept a tight grip on the struggling boy. "Caleb, it's just for a short while. I'm with you. You're going to be alright. I just need you to focus for a moment."

As he neared the rapidly filling tub of water, Caleb's fear grew. "No, please." He tried to pull away, but in his state it left him gasping and coughing. He felt his father hug him against his chest, then sit him down on cold porcelain, on the edge of the tub.

Mac kneeled in front of him, trying to keep him from become agitated. "It's okay. It's just a bathtub, son. You're not in the ocean."

Caleb looked scared. "Don't send me away. I'll be good. Please."

"I'm not sending you away, Caleb. It's okay." Mac slowly lifted the boy's legs and swung them around so that they were in the water. He was prepared when Caleb cried out and tried to get out. He wrapped his arms around his chest and pulled him down into the water. His screams were cut off by rough harsh coughs that left him winded.

The whimpers were shushed quietly and caring hands washed his body, cooling the fevered skin. Throughout it, Mac told him stories, happy stories of childhood games and imaginary friends. He spoke of nonsense, things he knew the boy wouldn't remember in his state. It wasn't what he said, it was his tone; he wanted the boy to feel safe and secure in his arms.

And slowly, he did. The fight left him gradually and he leaned into the caress of the cloth across his skin. Once he was relaxed, the doctor pulled out the first aid kit he'd stocked under the bathroom sink and found the thermometer. "Caleb, I need you to stick this under your tongue for a minute." He wiped the glass with alcohol before slipping it into place and holding it there.

The thirteen year old looked absolutely wiped out. He didn't have the energy to lift his arms. Once the appropriate time had pasted, he read the temperate on the mercury glass. 103.6 F. The doctor shook his head; he could only imagine what it had been before the bath.

Caleb lay in the water, floating around. He didn't want to be there—but, for once in his life, didn't have the energy to fight anymore. Remarkably, he wasn't afraid; someone was holding him up, keeping him from drowning. The man was comforting, talking to him. He was touching him, but the touches were safe and gentle, like his mother who'd bathed him as a child. No one else had ever bathed him; at the age of five, he wanted to take care of himself—no one was going to replace his mother, not even his grandma.

Mackland let Caleb doze in the bathtub, hoping the cold water would lower the fever to a more manageable state. He grabbed the nearest phone and called the school to let them know that Caleb wasn't coming in. The second call he made was to his assistant Naomi, to let her know the situation. She wished him luck and Caleb a fast recovery.

He walked back to his son's bedroom and pulled out some warm sweat pants and a t-shirt. A clean pair of boxers were added on to the pile and he went to check on his ill child. Caleb was still sleeping, but he was shivering slightly in the tub. It was a positive sign, the doctor thought. The fever was coming down.

The doctor gently stroked the boy's forehead and cheek, calling out to him. "Caleb. Wake up."

Caleb woke, gradually realizing that he was in the bathtub. "Mac? Why am I in the bathtub?"

"You had a fever, son. A very high fever—you were hallucinating." Mac ducked down and pulled the stopper from the tub. Slowly, the water drained in swirls. "I needed to get you cooled down. Why don't we get dressed and warmed up?"

Caleb leaned his head against the rim of the tub, coughing lightly. "Okay." He closed his eyes again, but was shaken awake.

Once the tub was empty, a towel was draped over his wet body. Mackland wiped him down before lifting him into a standing position. Caleb did what he could to help, but it didn't stop him from feeling like falling over. Stepping out of the tub, Caleb gripped the sink tightly, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Throughout it, Mac was able to finish wiping the water from his body and slipped him out of the wet underpants. The clean pair was professionally placed on his hips followed by his favorite sweatpants.

"Here, let's get this on." Mac held up the t-shirt and slipped it over his head. Once his head was through, it was easier to fumble his arms into it.

His father led him to the closed toilet seat and he was pushed to sit. A towel was rubbed through his short hair, drying it in quick order. He moaned at the touch; his skin hurt, his body ached, even his hair hurt. "Sore?" Mac asked.

Caleb sniffed a bit, "yeah." His hands flew to his face, pressing his fingers under his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure. When he opened his eyes, Mac was kneeling in front of him. The doctor tugged his hands away and replaced them with his own. Gently, he pressed down along his face. Caleb groaned as his fingers found the sensitive areas. His hands probed his throat, chest and belly. He was thoroughly examined for any other ailments.

"I think you have a sinus infection, son. I want to listen to your lungs—can you breathe for me?" A stethoscope was warmed and pressed against his chest. Dr. Ames directed his breathing for a minute, listening closely for the crackle of rales that might confirm his earlier diagnosis. Thankfully, pneumonia was ruled out, leaving bronchitis a more likely culprit. Both could be treated at home with antibiotics and nebulizers. He handed him a couple of Tylenol tablets; it'd lower his fever.

"I'm going to call in a couple prescriptions for you: Amoxicillin and albuterol. They'll help you feel better, breathe easier. I'll also see if we can get a humidifier for your bedroom." Mac stood up and held out a hand. Caleb nodded and stood, letting the doctor lead him back to his room.

Caleb sat at his desk while he watched Mac change his sheets, letting his head rest against the cold wood and his arm. The wood fogged with his breath and he drew shapes into the mist until it evaporated. A touch on his shoulder jarred him. "Sorry, son. Let's get you into bed."

His father helped him into bed; tucking him in like Isaac Reaves had done every night when he was a baby. A warm hand trailed across his forehead and caressed his cheek. Mac stepped out of the room for a moment, letting his son doze off.

Calling the corner pharmacy, Dr. Ames asked them to deliver the medicine to their apartment as soon as possible, paying extra for the service. He went back into the bathroom and rummaged through his medical supplies for a familiar blue container. The jar of eucalyptus/menthol rub was rarely used, but was a blessing to have when congested.

Walking back into Caleb's room, it wasn't hard to see that he wasn't comfortable. The pillows had fallen to the ground where they'd been pushed, the blankets were half on and half off of his body, as if he didn't know if he wanted them or not and he was laying in bed sideways.

"Caleb," Mac softly admonished, "Let's get you more comfortable." He leaned over and picked up the extra pillows, propping them up against the headboard. He untangled the sheets and the comforter was righted. Next he helped the boy sit up against the pillows; it would be easier for him to breathe in a semi-upright position.

The blue jar was brought into the teen's view and he groaned at it. "I hate that stuff. It smells."

Mac smiled as he sat down beside him, "Yes, but it helps you breathe easier. I'll bring in the humidifier in a minute; that'll help as well." He opened the jar, both of them wincing at its pungent odor. He spread the jelly through his fingers, warming it slightly before lifting his son's shirt and gently applied the menthol on his chest and neck. Caleb squirmed a bit, embarrassed, but let him finish the ministrations.

The doctor wiped his hands, then dug up the old humidifier he'd put in the storage closet. The device was still in its original packaging; he'd never even opened it before. He'd bought it on a whim, when it was on sale—he figured that he might need it sometime, but hadn't found use for it. He poured water in the plastic container and plugged in the machine. A vapor mist formed after the humidifier heated up. A small vial of eucalyptus oil was included in the kit, so he poured the vial in the water as instructed. Shortly, the room was filled with the pleasant fragrance of the oil.

Almost immediately, Caleb's breathing became less labored and he relaxed against the cushions. "Thanks, Mac. That helps. I think I can sleep now."

Mac smiled, "Alright, why don't you take a nap? I'll make you some soup while I wait for the pharmacy. Hopefully, it won't be too much longer." He walked towards the door, leaving it open. "Sleep well."

"Mac?" Caleb called out.

"Yes, son?" Mac turned towards him. "Are you alright?"

Caleb nodded, "Just tired… are you … going to leave?" He asked the question timidly, afraid of the answer.

"No. I'm not leaving, Caleb. I'm staying right here with you." Mackland stated it clearly, concerned. "Why do you ask?"

Caleb sat up straighter, pulling the covers up to his chest. "Don't you have to go to work? I mean, you don't have to stay. I'm okay, if you need to leave."

Mackland walked over to his bedside again, sitting on the edge. He rubbed his mustache for a second before collecting his thoughts. He placed his hand on top of his son's, using his thumb to stoke his clenched muscles. "I'm not leaving you, son." He repeated it again. "Why would you think that I'd leave you when you're ill?"

Shrugging, Caleb shook his head, "I don't know… I just thought, you have work and it's important." He stared at his hands, and was surprised when Mac's hand lifted his face to meet his eyes.

"My work isn't as important as you are. When I decided to adopt you, the priorities of my life radically changed, son. On that day, I put my family first—everything else falls into place after it. You're my son. Understand?" Mac let his hand drop away, waiting for the confusion to clear from the teen's eyes.

"Yeah, I think I do." Caleb smiled tiredly. "I just—forgot what that was like, you know? Most of my foster parents…well, most of them just wanted me around for the monthly check."

Mac was concerned, "And if you were sick?"

The teen licked his lips, his throat was becoming dry. Mac noticed and brought him a cup of water right away. "The last time I got this sick, my foster parents didn't even notice. I was in my room for a couple days and they didn't even check on me. The school called them to tell them that I missed classes, so they broke down my door. I guess, I'd made a mess in there… they were pissed. My bed was gross—I think I must've thrown up on it a couple times and I was sweating, so it stunk in there. They made me clean it up, threw a bottle of pills at me, and went back to work. They said that I was costing them money and that I'd have to work to make it up to them. I had to mow the neighbors lawns for like a month to earn it back. It sucked."

"Oh, my." Dr. Ames was shocked. While it wasn't surprising to hear a horror story about the American foster system, it was horrifying to hear a story like that coming from your child. "I'm so sorry, Caleb. I promise you; that will never happen again."

"I know. You're not like that." Caleb knew it in his heart. He wanted to say that he was an awesome dad; that he was the type of dad the he dreamed that he would've had, but he didn't. It was too corny.

"I'm going to sleep now…thanks, again." Caleb mumbled, sinking into the pillows.

"Good night, son." Mac patted his chest before rising. He lingered at the doorway, just staring as he slowly fell asleep.

_Yes, his priorities had definitely changed._

The End.

Yes, my weekend sucked. Unfortunately, I didn't have a Mac-like Tom Selleck look-alike to ween me back to health. I would've settled for Jensen or Jared as well… but alas, my cat kept me company.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Author's Note**__: This is something that I had in my mind for a while. So, here it is. Mac's backstory. _

**Redemption**

- **Author:** Sensue  
- **Summary:** Brotherhood AU. Dr. Mackland Ames' runs into someone he never thought he'd see again…making him remember things that he wished he could forget.  
- **Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural: the series or either of the two hot guys in it. Wish I did, especially Jensen Ackles. The Brotherhood AU was developed by Ridley C. James and Tidia.  
- **Rating:** TV-14  
**- Timeline**: Caleb's fifteen… let's just say a short time before "Filmstrips and Striptease".

"Mac, tell me again. Why do I have to go? I can just wait in the car—it's cool. I can watch TV in here!" The boy started pressing the buttons on the console next to him, revealing the small embedded TV in the limo. Caleb reluctantly climbed out of the limo after the driver held the door for him. He waited for his father to get out before pulling at his tie, again. "Please?"

"Caleb! As I've already explained, you have to come with me because this is a _family_ dinner with the other members of the hospital board. They are _also_ bringing their families, and since the Ames Foundation has just funded the new oncology wing, they have graciously invited us. And we will," Dr. Ames stressed, "be _honored _to be their guests."

Caleb shot his father a look of disgust. "Cullen didn't have to come!" He yanked the tie around his fist. Mac stopped him from completely destroying the silk cloth and pulled his hand away before retying it for him in the correct manner.

Mac took in a deep breath in exacerbation, "Caleb, you know that your grandfather is in Europe. Otherwise, he wouldn't have missed it."

The boy gave the older man a cocky grin, "Yeah, he's in Europe, all right—Paris, wasn't it? With the next Mrs. Ames…"

The exasperated father forced himself to stop gritting his teeth at the thought of it. "My father is not going to marry that woman!"

"You sure about that? She told you that if you needed anything, to think of her like a mother…" Caleb started cracking up with laughter.

Mac just pushed him into the banquet hall, muttering, "Over my dead body. She's practically a teenager…Gold digging, seductresses…"

Caleb continued to laugh, "Is that why I'm really here, Dad? To protect you from _the gold-digging seductresses_?"

It was the way that his son said it that made Mackland Ames shell crack. The doctor started laughing in agreement. "You are absolutely right. That is exactly why I brought you."

Caleb arched his eyebrow at him, Spock-like. "So, I'm your 'baggage', huh? Single father with a wild teenager? You should swear and drink too. Oh, and talk about all the girls who randomly come over to have sex with you."

"Caleb!" Mac looked shocked. He looked around the room to make sure no one had heard the boy before walking over to the buffet table. He picked up a couple of plates and handed one to his son. They both snacked as they spoke.

"What? I read it in Playboy. _Traits women find undesirable_." Caleb explained to the sheltered older man. He ignored his father's widening eyes, as he further explained. "See, I **do** read the articles. Although, it does mention, some women like that 'bad boy' type of personality, so it could back-fire on you."

Dr. Ames was about to start one of his famous lectures, but a familiar face was approaching him. "We'll talk about this later, Caleb. Including how in the world you are able to buy those…trash ridden magazines."

"I subscribe." Caleb smirked back, timing it perfectly so that he would have the last word.

"Dr. Mackland Ames." The man held out his hand to the doctor and enthusiastically pumped his hand up and down. He put the plates down on a tray a waiter had walked by with.

"Dr. Witherspoon, wasn't it? You're the Chief of the Psychology Department?" Dr. Ames took his hand back from the man, smiling uncomfortably as the doctor continued to stare at him. He quickly introduced his son.

"Yes, I am." The man stated matter-of-factly. "In fact, I'm also the head of clinical psychiatric research."

"Really?" Mac tried to act interested, but truly wanted to get away from the pushy man. Especially since he'd all but completely ignored his son. "Congratulations. I'll be sure to look you up in the Journal when I get a free moment."

Caleb just rolled his eyes and acted completely bored. Mackland politely nodded and walked away to sit at a table that had been reserved for him and his son. Caleb was pulling at his tie again, as if it was strangling him; this time it was Mac's turn to roll his eyes as his son shoved the black tie in his pocket and pulled out the shirt.

"Hey, the world isn't going to end because I didn't wear a tie." Caleb defensively argued. Mackland turned to counter the statement and wasn't watching where he was going. He collided into a waiter. Quickly he grasped the man by the arm and straightened him. "I'm sorry--" He froze.

"You… what are you doing here?" Mac whispered. He felt his hands drop to his side and start to become clammy. He clenched them into fists until the moment passed.

The waiter looked uncomfortable, and there was apart of the doctor that reveled in it. He wanted him uncomfortable; he wanted him to feel pain—to know what he'd done. Another tray was placed in front of their party and Mac grit his teeth as he watched the man pick up a glass of wine and drown it in a gulp. In his hurry, a drop of red wine stained his white shirt and he hurriedly wiped at it. Caleb was at his back, standing rigid in a protective stance, obviously picking up his emotional state.

"When I –uh—when I was in prison, I'd call the hospital every day and see if…well, if you died. Most of the time, they wouldn't tell me anything, but sometimes, I'd get someone on a good day—and they'd tell me that you were still in a coma." The man sounded broken. "I—uh—I'd sit in that cell and wonder what I'd say to you if I saw you again. 'I'm sorry' seemed too trivial." The man put his hand out to the doctor. "For what's it worth, I prayed that you'd wake up. I'm grateful that I got my wish."

Caleb stared at the man, realization filling his mind. "Dad?" He whispered, "Is that the guy?"

'The guy' heard him. "Yeah, kid. I'm the guy who put your dad in a coma. I'm the guy who ruined his life… if it weren't for me—he'd probably have won the Nobel Prize or something. I've never forgiven myself for the mistakes that I made--"

"Listen, I have no time for this. My son and I are leaving. Stay away from us." The Scholar demanded.

"You're right. I am sorry… It wasn't my intention to go into all of this now. I just wanted to let you know that—I'm getting help. I still drink—and sometimes, it's all I want to do. But, I'm working on it. If there's anything that I can do—to make up for the things I've done… call me." The man handed him a card with the name Henry Mitchell bolded, and then watched as it flew to the ground unseen.

------------------

Caleb watched in concern when his adoptive father shakily got back into the limo and started rubbing at his temples. He took in a deep breath, looked at him and gave him a smile that ended up being a grimace. He didn't speak the entire trip home; Caleb noticed the tension in his shoulders, his face--all of a sudden it was as if the man had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Even their driver noticed, "Are you alright, Dr. Ames?"

It seemed to jar him from his reverie, "Yes, thank you, Anderson. I'm fine."

The car slowed to a stop in front of their apartment and they both went up to the penthouse. Caleb stayed close to his father--he put a hand against his back guiding him inside when it seemed that the older man wasn't entirely 'there'. He was somewhere inside of his mind, reliving a memory that he wanted to forget.

They both walked over to the kitchen table, Mac seemed a little lost, as if he didn't know where he was. "Dad, sit. I'll make you some of that tea you like." Caleb softly ordered. Caleb watched as Mac sat, cradling his head in his hands at the table.

The teen didn't know what to do: Mac was the one who took care of him, who knew what to say to make things better. He'd never seen his guardian like this before. It scared him.

The whistling of the tea kettle interrupted his impending panic. He poured the water and threw the tea bag inside, letting the aroma fill the room. Placing the cup in front of his father, Caleb took the seat beside him and waited.

He tried to think of something intelligent to say, but couldn't. He instead let his instincts take over as he leaned into the man and wrapped his arms around his chest, resting his head against his now trembling shoulder. Mac uncovered his face and used one of his hands to stroke Caleb's hair as if to tell him that he was alright--comforting _him_, in essence. They both sat there for a little while until Mac had gathered his wits about him.

Mac gave his son a quick kiss on the head before pulling out of his embrace. "I'm tired, son." His voice was emotionless and quiet as he spoke to him, unlike his usual warmth. "I'm going to bed now." Standing, he gave Caleb one last look, "Good night, Caleb."

The man looked at least five years older as he walked into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. Caleb sat back at the table and decided to drink the untouched cup of tea himself. It didn't take a psychic to know what was on his father's mind... he'd thought that Mac would want to talk about it. Hell, Mac ALWAYS wanted to talk about stuff. He lived off that therapeutic psycho-babble. Anytime he felt...upset, all he'd have to do was sit down in Mac's office. His father would sit beside him; sometimes, he'd talk to him and tell him about his day. Other times, he didn't. He'd bring a book in with him on those days--he'd lounge on the couch, staring at the same page for what seemed like hours until it was time for bed.

Cullen was a phone call away, this he knew for a fact. His grandfather would immediately cut his trip short and fly back home as soon as he hung up the phone. He'd dump his gold-digging girlfriend in a heartbeat if she tried to talk him out of it too--but Caleb didn't want to ruin his trip.

Memories of Mac's hospitalization after his adoption clearly ran through Caleb's mind. It was the day he'd realized that the man who'd taken him in was more than just his guardian--someone to temporarily house him until he turned eighteen. At that point, Caleb had planned on hitting the road. He'd certainly never considered the fact that the man would mean so much to him, not until he'd almost died. It was the day he'd been taught that family--a father--wasn't necessarily blood; they could be tighter than blood and share a bond so strong that no one could break. Cullen had made him promise to love his father -- to not hold back for fear of losing him. His grandfather shared his shame, told him that he'd been a horrible parent to his only son in his grief over the loss of his wife.

He'd been surprised to hear that Cullen would've taken him in, if the worst had happened. The fear of un-acceptance had vanished; he was an Ames in all but name.

Walking over to the couch, he decided to rest there. It had been a long day and he was tired too. Leaning back, Caleb closed his eyes, praying to God for guidance.

He was near sleep, merely dozing when he'd heard the cries coming from the bedroom. Jumping up, he practically ran toward Mac's room. He entered the room, searching for a threat but finding nothing other than his father in the room. Mac was sitting up in his bed, sweat blotting his face and practically gasping for breath. He swung his legs around and got up to go to his private bathroom. Caleb followed behind him, worried. He watched as Mac threw handfuls of water onto his face, rubbing the sweat away from his skin.

Caleb figured that he'd been patient long enough; he leaned against the sink turning towards the shaken older man. "Must've been some nightmare..."

His eyes were bloodshot, tired and puffy. Mac looked utterly exhausted. "It was." He stared at himself in the mirror as if he didn't recognize the face reflecting back. He forcefully turned his gaze away to look at his son. He wasn't sure what Caleb's expression would be, but he wasn't expecting to see determination in his eyes.

"Dad, we've got to talk. You can't keep this bottled up; it'll drive you nuts."

For a few minutes, Mackland didn't answer him. He just rubbed his jaw tiredly and nodded. "You're right... Let me just get my robe, give me a few minutes, alright?"

Reluctantly, Caleb left the room. He feared that if he let Mac out of his sight that he'd change his mind about talking to him. It was ridiculous; half the time, he couldn't get Mac to shut up about things. He talked about everything-- and now, when it was really important, the roles were reversed. It was Mac that kept a tight lip.

He sat on the couch, lighting one of the candles that were arranged on the coffee table by their maid. The woman had purchased them for Mac's birthday, telling them that aromatherapy was calming for the soul. He lit the purple one that he remembered she said was used for relaxation. After a few minutes, he sniffed the air--nope, he was still anxiously waiting. "What a waste of money..." Caleb muttered to himself.

Mackland slowly strolled into the room like a man on death-row. Wearily, he lowered himself to the cushions next to the fifteen year old. They both stared at the flame, not speaking for a while.

"I'm sorry, son. I didn't mean to keep you up. Why don't you go to bed now?" Mac suggested softly.

Caleb hit his arm with his fist, hard enough to make a statement, but not hard enough to hurt. "I'm not going to bed, Mac..." He took in a deep breath before continuing, "Dad, I think you need to talk about this. I mean, you're having nightmares... that guy--Mitchell-- he ruined your life."

Mac swallowed hard, "No, he didn't, son. The day I woke up from that coma, I started a new life; one that I'm very grateful for. If it hadn't been for that accident, Caleb, I don't think that either of us would be here right now."

Letting his arm rest on the back of the couch, he let his hand come into contact with Caleb's shoulder. The boy shifted closer to his touch and there was a part of him that filled with hope and love. "You're right. I am having nightmares-- ones in which I wasn't hit by a drunk-driver, that I wasn't in a coma; ones in which I'm still a hot-shot neurosurgeon. The path that I'd been on was selfish, egotistical, materialistic, and uncaring. I dreamed that I'd had it all: money, power, women..."

Caleb smirked at him, "Yeah, I could see how that'd give you nightmares, Mac!"

Returning the smile, Mac continued, "I also dreamt that I'd never gotten my abilities. I'd pictured the lives of the families I had helped save, in despair." Gently, he ran a hand through Caleb's hair, his eyes tearing at where his thoughts had taken him. "The thought that finally woke me was that I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I had imagined your grave; imagined myself crying as they lowered you into the dirt, unable to save you. I woke up crying, thinking that it'd happened."

Listening to his adoptive father, Caleb found himself mentally picturing his life without the older man. Unfortunately, his life stopped at the hospital where he'd met him. If Mac wasn't around, without a doubt his life would've ended that day: either at the hand of Daniel Elkins or his own. At that point, there was nothing to live for; everyone around him died. And the worst part was--Caleb knew that no one would've cared. He would've died--and maybe the only person that would've showed up at his funeral was Bird, his grandmother's old friend.

Mac patted him lightly on the forehead, as if he'd pictured what he was thinking. "Are you alright?"

Caleb nodded, "Yeah... I just--I never knew that you felt that way, you know? I mean, would've never wanted anything like that to happen to me; I don't think that I would've thought about all of the other consequences. You had a perfect life before the accident. Most people--they'd give anything to be rich, smart, and never mind the women, Dad..." Thoughtfully, Caleb continued, "It must've been really hard on you..."

"Well, at first, it was. The pain was indescribable and, yes, my life had abruptly changed--without my consent. I'd been a man who thrived on being in control of everything; I considered my medical abilities near God-like in terms of power. I'd lost everything in one fall swoop because of a drunk driver. My physical health, my job, my friends, and my old life." His son inched his way closer until he was tucked under his arm, their heads practically touching as he listened. "I was angry. I wanted to kill that man; I hated him--hated how he'd taken everything that I worked for. Your grandfather told me that the police had arrested him and that he'd been put in prison; it was his third strike, from what I'd heard. It was your grandfather that helped me get through it. I'd been depressed; there were times that I'd wished I had died, but he held me together and supported me after everyone else had left. Do you know that not one single person that I'd considered a friend visited me in the hospital? Sure, a couple of them sent flowers or cards, but no one took the time to see how I was doing. It was a long and hard process, son. It took me months to learn how to walk again; nearly a year to speak properly..."

"When did you discover that the accident left you with abilities?" Caleb asked.

Mac rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Honestly, I'm not sure... at first, I didn't understand what they were. I thought I was going crazy. The doctors thought I'd had some kind of brain damage and it was causing hallucinations. It was only after I'd started moving objects with my mind that I realized that the accident must've triggered a psychic ability and even then, I had a hard time believing it was true."

"But once you did?"

"Once I did, I realized that I couldn't go on with my old life. I had decided that I would learn how to harness my abilities and try to help as many people as I could with them. I wanted to find others like me--and help them too. I'd started working with the FBI, helping them find missing children. I meet Missouri Mosley and then Pastor Jim soon after. Jim encouraged me to join the Brotherhood and so I did."

"All of those things led you to me..." Caleb trailed off.

His father looked at him curiously, "Yes, I suppose that it did. Why?"

"Pastor Jim would say that it was God's plan." It was said matter-of-factly.

"Yes. He would. What would you say?" Mac asked the boy.

"I'd say that we're both pretty lucky to have found each other... especially since we'd both be dead." Caleb laughed.

Mackland nodded, "You're right."

"You know what I'm going to do tonight, Mac?"

He shook his head, "No, what?"

Pulling away, Caleb leaned over the couch to grab hold of the telephone. He pressed three buttons in rapid succession. "Yes, I'm calling in an anonymous tip. There' a man working at the Marriott on Grove Ave who's on parole from drunk driving and vehicular assault--he's drunk. The name is Henry Mitchell. You might want to pick him up. Thank you. Have a nice day, officer." With that said, he hung up the phone.

"I just didn't want anything to happen to anyone else. They might not end up with super-powers like you did," Caleb laughed.

Mackland laughed with him. "No, probably not."

The older man stood up and helped his son to his feet. Gently, he pushed the teen to his bedroom. "This time, it's time for both of us to go to bed, son. Good night. I love you, Caleb."

The young man hesitated, then rolled his eyes. "I love you too. Geez, you're so sappy, Dad. You know we're guys--we don't have to say it. But, since we're having this heart-to-heart, I'll let you get away with it this time." He hugged the older man, "Good night."

Mac watched the boy go to his room before heading to his own. He crawled into his bed and thought to himself... I wouldn't trade anything in the world for him.

The End


	13. The Anniversary Part Triginta 30

The Anniversary Part Triginta

_By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right,  
he usually has a son who thinks he's wrong. ~Wadworth_

Mackland Ames sat at the resort bar, sipping slowly at his brandy. It was a rare occasion in which he allowed himself to indulge. He'd been hoping that Caleb would be joining him, but he'd been waiting for him for an hour now. A quick check to his videophone showed that Caleb was running late and would be arriving soon. He'd never gotten used to these technological advancements that were supposed to make life simpler and 'bring people closer together', as the advertisements repeated incessantly.

The Youtube youth had become a virtual generation who could literally video chat with anyone in a nanosecond, access information in a heartbeat, and instantaneously send and receive files with handheld super-computers. It was supposed to enrich the human race, but to Mackland, it seemed to only isolate them.

He could see why crime had been escalating over time; people were becoming lonely. Humans were social creatures; they needed contact...to touch, to feel, and surround their senses with something other than a computer screen. Lonely people were dangerous, to themselves, and to others.

The FBI, even with their new artificial intelligence profiling systems, and DNA databases couldn't keep up with the spike in kidnappings. Even though he'd been retired nearly ten years, the FBI still had his phone number and didn't hesitate to call him on the more--_disturbing_ cases. The doctor didn't have it in him to say 'no'. Once he'd heard about the case, he agreed to help try to find the missing children.

The glass in his hand started to shake, so he slug back the last couple gulps of alcohol and nodded for the bartender to fill it up again. He'd worked on hundreds of missing person cases, found countless bodies: men, women, and children, in the years he'd been on retainer with the feds. This one though, he couldn't shake. The last few nights he'd woken them up with his nightmares, awoke in a cold sweat and Esme worriedly holding him. His wife begged for him to tell her what the nightmares had been about, but the top secret nature of the case put a strain on their relationship, as he was unable to speak about it.

It was still strange for him to think of himself as a married man, as he'd been a bachelor for the significant portion of his life. Both of their children were grown men when they'd finally made that last leap into 'sealing the deal'. There were times where he'd nearly forgotten that 'he' was now a 'they', even though they'd shared their lives, their homes, and their beds for years.

In some ways, they both had relished their independence and it had taken some adjusting to making their marriage work, especially with their 'extended' family. Their boys fought like true step-brothers--forgetting the fact that they were in their forties and nearing fifty years of age. Esme's son, Joshua was married and had a family of his own now. So, not only did they have to adjust to having 'sons', but also a house full of grandchildren, which now included the Winchester children. He still held on to the hope that Caleb would one day change his mind about settling down... but his son told him not to hold his breath.

His memory was being put to the test, as he was forced to remember countless birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays. Mac was ashamed to say that a couple of the important days had slipped his mind, but there was one anniversary that he couldn't forget: the day he'd met Caleb.

It was an anniversary that he and his son always celebrated, no matter how busy: if even they could only celebrate it through the phone if distance separated them. At first, Mac was afraid to leave the boy alone on that day. Unfortunately, the day they met signified the day that Caleb wanted to erase from his memories. It was the day that his parents had died: his birth parents, and years later, his foster parents. Mackland had been too late to save the family that had taken the boy in, but thankfully stopped the boy from going over the edge in order to follow them. As the years passed, it had been as he'd promised: a day that was special to the both of them. Slowly, his son's memories of death were replaced with memories of life.

He looked at his diamond gold watch, given to him by his son on his birthday; it was now 5:30pm, a full two hours from when Caleb promised to meet him at the Glade Springs Resort, the same resort they had spent their first anniversary. The bartender asked him if he wanted another drink and he nodded. He felt his muscles start to relax as the alcohol kicked in.

------------

Caleb Reaves walked into the antique resort; the company prided themselves on keeping everything the way the original owners had intended. When there were so many places fighting to keep up with the latest and greatest devices, it was wonderful to just kick back and not have to worry about infrared security monitoring, video feeds, and uploading footage on the virtualnet. The Brotherhood Geek squad was working overtime trying to remove all the traces of the last feed. But, honestly, how was he supposed to know that the victim had been wirelessly sending footage of the werewolf attack to his book agent? When Carolyn had told him the attack was posted on the 'net and that the man had been planning on selling it to promote his memoires, he'd been speechless.

He was happy to see that some places stayed the way he remembered as a teen. It brought back memories of his father and grandfather trying to make the day special for him. Caleb smiled as he saw the antique golf carts; his grandfather nearly ran both of them down trying to get to the course. He was surprised to see the old machines still running; they don't make them like they used to, he thought.

Walking over to the maître de, he asked the man where his father was. Snottily, the man pointed at the bar. "Do you wish to be seated, sir?"

Caleb shook his head, "Not right now... maybe in a little while." Walking past the podium, he took his time to observe his father before he caught his attention. Esme had worriedly called him along the way, explaining that Mac wasn't fairing very well since the FBI had sent him on a case.

He wanted to swear at them or worse! Mackland was getting along in his years; his hair had long since lost all color, leaving him with a near Santa Claus-like appearance. He was semi-retired from hunting, only helping out if Sam needed an extra hand with research and hadn't worked in the field for the last few years. Caleb laughed as Dean's sons put his father through his paces; the older man truly enjoyed every minute, but everyone noticed that he was slowing down. There was no reason for the FBI to keep calling on him. The man was retired! He deserved to settle down and enjoy it. He didn't need cases so disturbing that it gave him nightmares.

Watching, he saw Mac gulping the drink in his hand and closed his eyes tightly at the sight. When he opened them again, he ran his fingers though his speckled hair then went over to where Mac was sitting. He forced himself to take on a nonchalant tone as he gently griped his shoulder, "Hey, Dad. Start the celebrating without me, huh?"

Although he had been trying not to startle the older man, he winced as Mac jumped at his contact. His father quickly recovered, smiling and hugging him upon his arrival. "Caleb, how was the trip, son? I hope that nothing serious held you up." Mac quickly reversed the conversation back to him.

Fingering the envelope in his pocket, Caleb just shook his head, "No, just paperwork. You know, this 'paperless' government we have is actually using up twice as much paper as we used to. Sorry to keep you waiting."

He sat down next to his father, studying him. While he had aged in that manly distinguished manner, Mackland looked tired lately. The evidence of his sleepless nights were clear in his baggy dark eyes, making him look haggard. His face was pale in the fluorescent bar lighting.

The bartender approached him asking him if he wanted a drink, his father held up his glass for a refill, and he asked for a draft beer. The hard liquor would have to wait. The bartender poured Mac's glass to half and handed Caleb a frosted beer mug with the amber colored liquid.

"Are you done studying me yet, son?" Caleb was jarred from his examination. He looked up to see his father's eyes teasing him.

He huffed, "You do it to me all of the time. Now, you can't take it, huh?"

"I usually have a good reason-- you're usually bleeding or unconscious."

"Not all of the time." Caleb laughed, gently nudging Mac's shoulder with his own. He felt the older man loose his balance and quickly reacted, gripping him around the shoulder before he toppled off the barstool. His mirth became worry. "You alright?"

Mac put his hand to his head, as if dizzy. "Yeah. I think I just had too much to drink."

Drinking too much was something Caleb could understand; he didn't drink to excess often, but there certainly were days when he wanted to. "Have you eaten?"

Rolling his eyes, Mac spoke in annoyance, "I was waiting for you, Caleb. I wasn't expecting that our late lunch would turn into dinner." He lifted his eyes and glared at his son.

As usual, Caleb ignored the glare and he'd long gotten used to his father being sarcastic. In his teenaged years, it was constant: anytime he and John Winchester were in a room together, especially if they were fighting. John fought by raising his voice, Mac fought with sarcasm. It made the boring days pass by with a little entertainment. He remembered Bobby jumping in with his brand of humor, trying to diffuse the arguments; most of the time, it backfired, turning the attention on him instead of each other. It wasn't until Sam's teenaged years that he'd finally realized that Bobby did it on purpose. Unfortunately, Bobby's jokes didn't work on the two stubborn Winchesters. No matter how many times he tried, John and Sam were unable to stop butting heads.

"I said that I was sorry... I was picking up your present, so you better be nice or I won't give it to you." Caleb teased.

Mac looked at him with surprise. "My present?"

Caleb gulped the last of his beer, then gently guided his father out of the bar area. "Yes, it is our anniversary."

"We don't give each other presents on this anniversary... We agreed that it was just a day to spend time together. We always have." The doctor was puzzled, the alcohol making it hard for him to focus. Caleb would've called it being 'buzzed'. "And--where are we going? I thought we were going to have dinner?" He asked this as he was being led toward the elevator.

Caleb just smiled, pulling him towards the open doors of the lift and waiting for it to close behind them. Leaning, he pressed the 'penthouse' button. The elevator hummed as it took them up to the top floor. "Patience, Dad."

Once the doors opened, Caleb led them both to the suite he'd rented. He pulled out the key and unlocked the door. The key was the old fashioned metal; he loved the feel of them. The new key-fob systems, while functional, lacked a physical connection. Never mind the fact that John used to make him pick every lock in the house in less then 10 minutes or he'd have to run laps. Having to hack a computer to unlock a door was frustrating... he left that up to Sam and his computer-obsessed squad. Kids these days wouldn't know how to pick a lock if their lives depended on it. They were so used to running a key along a keypad and having the doors automatically open for them. In a way, he felt sorry for them.

The room was incredible; the view was out-of-this-world. You could see the New River Gorge Bridge from the windows and the sun was starting to set, hues of blue, purple, and red shown along the white walls; God was the ultimate artist creating a beauty that was unmatched. The maids had set up the room as he'd requested, candle light brightened the room and gave the area a calming scent of vanilla. The table was set for two; wine chilled in the metal bucket, and plates of appetizers were arranged around the table.

Caleb walked in and threw his suit jacket on the chair near the fireplace. He'd wanted to dress up for the occasion; for once, he figured it would be a good idea not to show up in a ripped up pair of jeans. Mackland walked in cautiously, looking around. "Caleb, what's going on? Is something wrong?"

A laugh escaped the younger man before he could stop it, "Wrong? Why do you think something is wrong?"

Mac was not smiling; if anything he looked incredibly worried. He licked his lips, "You've never done anything like this before..."

Grasping his father's hands in his, Caleb squeezed him reassuringly. "I know. But, like I said, this is a special occasion and I figured that, just this once, I'd used some of that Ames money that I've inherited."

Mac stopped him before he could pull away, "Is this about Cullen deciding to pass along the family business to Joshua? The both of us have asked you countless times if you were alright with it-- and you've never shown an interest in it the way that Joshua has--."

"No, Dad. It's not about that-- I've agreed that Joshua is the best person to run the Ames Foundation on a day-to-day basis. You know Deuce keeps me busy as the Knight; I'm rarely home and when I am, I keep getting suckered into babysitting. The time I do have for a normal life, I focus on Tri-Corp and my architectural designs. Josh may not have been born into this family--but, he's still apart of it. Hell, Cullen was ecstatic when he found out that Josh was a business man -- the PR training was the cherry on top. I still own majority holdings; I just don't have to go crazy at board meetings--I'll leave that to my 'brother'. Plus, I'll never admit this again, but Joshua deserves to feel like he's apart of this family. The way that Harland had treated him--hell, the way that we all treated him--I know he's felt like an outsider." He tapped his head, "The day Cullen told him to call him 'Grandpa'... I think the part of him that his father broke down started to heal."

There was a look of pride in his father's eyes as he spoke. It was like the one he'd given him when he was thirteen, when he'd sit with the traumatized five year old little boy and read to him. That little boy had become his little brother, inheriting all of the responsibilities, problems, and love that came along with him. He'd always been an only child, first with the Reaves, then as the adopted son of Mackland Ames; he never would've guessed that he'd have three brothers as an adult. Sam, Dean, and yes--even Joshua had become his brothers. He couldn't imagine his life without them.

Leading his father to the table, he gently pushed him into the chair and then poured them a bit of wine. He nudged the plate of gourmet cheese and crackers to his father, then selected his own to snack on. The waiter picked that moment to come in and drop off the first two courses: the salad, steak, and baked potato would keep them for while.

Caleb watched as Mac picked at his plate; while the doctor was notorious for eating 'healthy' meals, he didn't begrudge an occasional splurge of red meat. Caleb cut a piece of steak, remarking "You've barely touched your plate, Mac" before chewing on the tender roasted meat.

His father put his fork and knife down, picking up the glass flute to take of sip of wine before answering, "I guess that I'm not hungry..."

"When was the last time you ate?" Caleb asked gently; he knew that his father hadn't been eating proper meals--his stepmother made him promise to get him to eat.

Mac looked away from his son, trying not to get angry. "Esme called you." It was a statement.

The younger man knew his father was upset; some people got loud when they were mad, Mac just got softer. He didn't want his family to fight, so he picked the middle ground. "She's worried about you. I'm worried too." He took another sip of wine, trying to decide whether or not to try to read his father.

The plates on the table rattled as Mac threw his cloth napkin down forcefully. "I'm fine. There's nothing to worry about. I've told her that several times and now, I'm telling you."

Caleb continued as if he didn't hear him, "She says you've been having nightmares about the case the FBI asked you to investigate. She also says you haven't been sleeping or eating the last week."

The glare that was sent his way could've vaporized the building, "Perhaps she's wrong."

He put down his fork and knife, wiping at his mouth. "According to Deuce, a wife is never wrong; that is, unless you want to sleep on the couch." It was said in a light-hearted way, as Caleb tried to keep the situation from jumping out of proportion (or his control). He didn't want to get into a fight with his father on their anniversary.

Slowly, he got out of his chair and walked behind Mac's. Confidently, he placed his hands on his father's shoulders. From the light touch, he could feel the older man tense. "I know, Dad," he whispered into his ear. "I had Sam hack the FBI files."

Mac's breath caught, "No." He cried out, "It's classified; Sam could've been caught."

Caleb stopped him before he could continue into what he called 'lecture-mode'. "He wasn't. And, I asked him to. I needed to know how bad..."

With that said, Mac's face paled further. "Did you tell Esme?"

"No." Caleb twisted so that he could kneel in front of the chair. Once he was in front of his father, he let one hand rest on the back of his neck, and the other rested along the arm of the chair. "I didn't tell her. I didn't want to give her nightmares too."

They sat there for a while, not speaking; Caleb gave his support the way that he'd been taught, comforting and patient. "I'm proud of you, Dad. You found those kids when no one else could. You could've just blown them off, but you didn't, because you are a good man."

Mac's eyes filled with unshed tears, "Did the report tell you what their condition was when I found them?" His hands started shaking as he ran them through his silver hair.

Caleb inched closer, his voice clear and unyielding; "It's not your fault."

"I couldn't save them." This time, Caleb didn't need to press; his mind touched his father's and he saw what Mac saw, and felt what he felt.

"You tried. That's what matters. You tried to save them." Caleb said soothingly.

"Do you know how many people watched? There were over thirty thousand hits. The video was watched thirty thousand times, Caleb. And no one tried to save them." Mac covered his mouth to keep from yelling obscenities. "They were human... all of them. And they just--watched as children were ripped apart. Some of them, encouraged it."

Mac felt his son rub his neck, "I'm sorry that you had to see that, Dad."

"You don't seem surprised."

Caleb nodded, "Unfortunately, ever since Youtube started in the early 2000s, people have been posting horrific videos of people being murdered. The virtualnet and the new 'alternate reality' just made it worse. People are plugged into the virtual world and they seem to forget there's a real world out here that needs them; that people can have real connections." With that, he gripped Mac's hands tightly in his own. "Don't forget that you have us, Dad. You aren't alone."

Taking in a deep breath, Mac pulled himself back together, using the support his son was giving him freely. "I know that, Caleb and I thank god for that fact every day." He stroked his son's brow, pushing the long hair out of his face, smiling at the fact that his hair was starting to gray. "I just wish you would change your mind about marriage and children."

The younger man laughed, "What, you and Esme don't have enough grandkids running around?" He pulled himself off the floor, masking a groan when his knees creaked with the beginnings of arthritis. "Plus, in exchange for 'sharing' the family business with Josh, I've taken his first born son. Everyone knows that Max is mine--he just lives with Josh and Carolyn." He said it tongue-in-cheek, a wicked grin gracing his handsome face. "I would've taken Ben too, but I think that you beat me to him." He arched an eyebrow at his father, "After all, he's following in your footsteps."

Mac gave a small grin, "I just encourage him to follow his dreams."

"Yeah, I heard he's thinking of applying to Cornell... Hey, wasn't that your alma matter, Dad?" Caleb teased him, of course having heard about both Cornell and Johns Hopkins from the time he'd been in high school. The man had always wanted a doctor in the family; once he'd realized that Caleb had majored in architecture, he'd quickly turned his focus on Dean--teaching the teen medical skills necessary in the life of a hunter in hopes of encouraging him towards medical school. Dean had instead chosen a career in hunting; or rather, the decision had been made for him by his father and little brother. His best friend was incredibly loyal to his family and as long as they needed him, he wouldn't leave their side. Mac and Jim were saddened; Caleb and Sam both 'left the nest' to go to college and, for at least a short while, experienced a normal life. Dean did not; at least not until he met Juliet in his thirties. It was funny, Caleb thought, Dean was the only one who didn't search for a 'normal life' and he was the only one that got it. The wife, the kids, hell, even the dogs--Dean had it all.

An exaggerated sip of wine answered his question. Once the wine glass was put down, Caleb took it away. "I think that's enough wine... eat something." He pointed towards his plate, "The steak is really good. Best I've had in a while."

His father took the hint and started to eat. As he ate, Caleb happily noticed the color starting to return to his cheeks. He must've been hungry. They both ate their meal with a relish. Caleb entertained the both of them with stories of the Adventures of JT and Max. Mac cracked up when he heard about the boys 'freeing' the barn animals. He remarked that it reminded him of Caleb's childhood, bringing up the 'goat incident' again.

The waiter had come in later, clearing the table and bringing them coffee, tea, and desserts. The fireplace was lit and created a warm and inviting atmosphere as the sun went down. "How is Ben doing? He seems to be settling in well."

"The kid's a trooper; just like his old man. He's pretty much adapted to life at the farm." They chatted about the boys for a while longer, relaxing in the glow of the fire and enjoying the comfortable surroundings. Once the waiter cleared the table, both men decided to move next to the fireplace.

The older man relaxed in front of the fire, almost dozing off. Caleb stared at him, not for the first time noticing how much the man had changed over time...how much they had both changed. He quietly walked over to the chair where he'd thrown his jacket and pulled out the envelope that he'd struggled to attain for today.

It caught his father's eye, causing him to stir from his sleepiness. "What's that, son?" The doctor sat up straight, stretching out before relaxing again. Caleb walked over to him, positioning his chair in front of his father's and sat down.

For a second, Caleb hesitated; He knew that he shouldn't be afraid--after all of this time, there wasn't anything in the world that he could do that would tear their family apart. His childhood fears of being rejected by his adoptive father were just that--childish and unsubstantiated. This was something that he needed to do. It was something that he'd _wanted_ for a long time. "It's your anniversary present." He handed his father the envelope, and watched as his fingers tore it open and pulled out the official-looking letter.

Mac had been curious about the content of the yellow package; he'd seen the fear flicker across his son's eyes before he handed it to him and gathered his strength in opening what he assumed was an important document. He carefully tore at the seal and pulled out the letter. His gaze flew to his son's; Caleb smiled at him encouragingly, so he unfolded the crease and started reading the letter.

The beginning was standard: dates, salutations, congratulations... The doctor skimmed the letter for the important content and halted when his eyes caught words that had only been put together in his own mind and most secret dreams: Caleb Ames. His son was watching him anxiously, and he couldn't piece it together, so he re-read the letter.

The most important line stood out to him: _The legal petition to change the name of __Caleb Reaves__ to __Caleb Ames__ has been granted. _He stared at it until the words became blurred and he didn't understand why. Caleb had taken the letter from his unresisting hands and put it aside. One of his son's warm hands gripped his tightly and he wiped his face that was suddenly wet with the other, gently cupping his face

Caleb watched his father's reaction to the letter in dread. Perhaps he had made a mistake... He wiped the older man's tears and held him as he cried, praying to God to find the words to make things better, but unable to, since his own heart was breaking. He was surprised to find his own face wet with tears. Mac had pulled out of his embrace and cupped his neck with both hands. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath as he placed a kiss on his forehead shakily. "Why?" He whispered. "Why, now?"

Caleb lifted his eyes to the man, "I just--," he licked his lips to keep from crying, "I just realized one simple fact. You are my father. You raised me, you took care of me--hell, Dad, you still take care of me and you love me. I love you, you know; even though I don't say it. You're my dad; you've always been."

Mac's eyes refilled and he couldn't stop the next round of tears, as he found the way to speak. "I love you too, son."

"It's funny, Dad... I saw the way Dean was heartbroken after he finally found out about Ben being his son and I told him that it didn't matter _**when**_ they started to be a family; that he was that boy's father the minute he let him into his heart. Then I started thinking about you... and that Isaac Reaves may have shared his genetics with me, but you--_not him_--made me the man that I am today. I think that I had put him on a pedestal of 'what might have been' in my mind, making him perfect and it was stupid because you were in front of me the entire time...and I just--realized that **I am an Ames**. I am _**your son**_. I figured that it was time to make it official."

"Are you okay with this, dad?" Caleb rubbed his hands up and down the doctor's arms, trying to comfort him in the emotional moment.

He just nodded for a while, not letting his son out of his arms. Once the tears stopped, he whispered, "Thank you... This is the best present you've ever gotten me, son."

His son pressed his cheek against his head, hugging him. "Oh, come on, Dad. I think your fiftieth birthday present was awesome. Everyone needs a Rolex." He tapped the watch in question. They sat there for a couple more minutes until Caleb pulled away. The older man was still dabbing at his eyes.

"Wanna go for a walk?" He smiled, "I hear that the fifth longest bridge in the world is right outside the resort..."

Mac sniffed, then straightened, eyes still shining brightly. "Really? Is it the fifth now? I thought it was still the second?"

Caleb helped him out of the chair, then wrapped his arms around his shoulders as they walked together. "It was, but the new bridges they built in China connecting the Himalayas knocked it out of the running." He continued talking as they both walked the same path they'd taken thirty years before, and he discovered that as usual, his father was usually right: this was definitely the best present he'd ever given them.

The End

PS- This story was inspired by Ridley C. James Legacy Series: Titled The Ties That Bind. After I read that story and the part where Caleb said he changed his name and Mac cried like a girl... I knew that I had to write that story! PLEASE REVIEW!!!!


	14. Who Guards The Guardian?

_Note: Please excuse the bad language: some F bombs used.  
You'll understand as you read._

**Who Guards the Guardian?**

Sam stared out of the patio door window, worried, as he dialed the number he'd long since memorized. "Caleb, what's the ETA, man? I thought you were going to be here ten minutes ago?"

The voice on the other end answered promptly, "Give me five, Sam! I'm stuck waiting for these damn ducks to cross the road. Is everything alright? No one is bleeding or dying, right?" Reaves wasn't being sarcastic; the boys lived under Murphy's thumb. If anything could go wrong, it would go wrong.

Sam bit chewed on his thumb; it was a habit his brother and friend had tried to break from his childhood. He remembered the time that his thumb had been soaked in hot peppers as he slept and when he put his hand to his mouth, it was a moment that he'd never forgotten; unfortunately, even a burning hot mouth didn't break the habit. "No, not dying anyway... but, I can't promise that no one is bleeding."

The phone sounded as it was being shifted around, "What's that supposed to mean? Becoming cryptic in your old age, runt? You're okay, right?"

The younger man continued to stare out the window, mentally wishing that he had the ability to teleport at will. "I'm fine. Dean, however, is floating around the middle of the lake in his boat and won't come in, and it looks like it's going to rain. I've pretty much tried everything; he's acting like he's in shock or something."

Suddenly, he heard the roar of Caleb's new car and a few seconds later his friend's car drove into his view. Caleb climbed out of the shiny car as he continued to speak, "That's not a good sign. What happened to Juliet?" As he opened the front door, they both clicked off the cell phones.

Sam pushed his bangs out of his forehead, "I don't know. She's not here. I walked in expecting Dean to be in the pit working on that Mustang that was dropped off the other day, but he wasn't there. I searched the entire farm and found him out in the middle of the lake. At first, he wouldn't even answer me when I called him; I'd thought he'd passed out or something."

Caleb huffed, "Why didn't you just drag him out? Use the other boat and pull his into shore?" He flung his arms in the air in that 'do I have to think of everything' manner.

With a roll of his eyes, Sam retorted, "Don't you think I tried that? Somehow, he's tapped into one of his 'Guardian' water powers--every time I try to pull up my boat next to him, a wave pushes me back to the dock."

"Well, shit!" The Knight swore loudly. "Did he say that he wanted to be alone? You know that's where he goes to be alone."

"He didn't say anything at all. It was as if he literally shut down. I'm worried, Caleb. It's why I called you. I thought that maybe you could get through to him."

The older man paced back and forth, staring outside towards the lake. "I can't get a reading on him; ever since he's become the Guardian... but, now, all I feel is turbulent emotion. Do you have any idea what might be the problem?"

Sam looked around the farmhouse that had become his brother's home, thinking. "I have a feeling that it might be Juliet. I know that... Caleb, man, he loves her. I know that he was worried about telling her about the hunting--especially after the thing with Cassie. He wanted to let her into his life."

"Yeah, he said something along those lines to me too. He told me that he was going to tell her last week, though. I hadn't heard anything since then...I thought he got cold feet. You?"

Caleb could see the agitation coursing through the Scholar, "No, I was busy with class and just sent him a couple of texts to check up on him. He responded to all of them, so I thought that everything was alright."

The both stared at each other then went back to looking out the window. Sam had been right about the weather; it was starting to rain sprinkles. "You don't think he's been outside floating around for the last week, right?" Caleb arched his eye-brow, worried.

Sam started searching for evidence to contradict that idea, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found the still hot coffee-maker. He held up the coffee pot, "Only the bottom is burned, so he's probably only been out there for an hour or two."

Nodding, "That's good... well, we need to get him inside before it starts to really pour. We don't need him getting sick."

"You got any ideas on how to do that? The last time he did this, well, Pastor Jim used to go out and get him to come inside."

Caleb nodded, "I know... Trust me, I can't walk into this house without thinking about him and John. The last time, with Cassie, we just went to a bar and got drunk. I used to tell him that the right one would come along one day. I really liked Juliet, you know... she was, well, special."

"I did too, man. She brought out this side of Dean that I haven't seen in a while, you know: The playful part... the one that isn't stressed out or overwhelmed with responsibility. He relaxed around her in a way I haven't seen before. I mean, with women, he's usually 'wham bam, thank you ma'am', he barely remembers their name in the morning. Juliet, though, she practically lives here. At first, I thought she was just helping out with the farm, but, she's really here for him. But, if she's hurt Dean, Caleb--" Sam ran his hands through his hair, "He's been hurt too many times in his life. Shit, I'll just... kill her." The last statement made Caleb roll his eyes.

"That's just, mature, kiddo. We need to focus on helping Dean... not about killing his ex." Caleb shook his head as he walked towards the patio door that led to the lake. "I'm going to bring him inside-- just, put your own feelings away, Sammy. It's not about how you feel right now. It's about Dean. So, just be prepared to support him."

Nodding, Sam agreed. He only hoped that Caleb could get through to him in a way that he hadn't been able to. Deciding to make himself useful, he poured the old pot of coffee down the drain and started a new one. The rain was really coming down now, so he went to the linen closet and pulled out a couple of towels and a robe. Both Dean and Caleb would need them, as well as somewhere they could be warm. Grabbing some of the dried logs from the porch, he threw them into the fireplace and worked on starting a fire.

By the time the fire started crackling, Caleb was guiding Dean into the house. He was right about his brother looking shell-shocked: his skin was pale and completely soaked. Their friend was practically carrying him inside and settled him on the coach. Once Dean was sitting, Sam took over, throwing a towel over his head and another over his shoulders. A third was thrown to Caleb, and it was quickly put to use. Caleb wiped the rain from his own face and head, before coming over to help Sam with Dean. Between the both of them, they stripped the wet man of his clothes and wrapped him up in the robe and towels until his face flushed with a pink color.

"Hey, Deuce, talk to us..." Caleb tried to get the younger man to respond. Dean just cradled his head into his hands, his gaze focused on some spot only he could see on the carpet.

Sam stared at his brother, thinking for a while before he spoke. "Dean, I'm sorry... I should've called you this week. I know that things suck right now, but it'll be alright. You've got us, right?"

Caleb seconded the statement by squeezing Dean's shoulder. "He's right, Deuce. We've got your back. I know that you really liked Juliet, man...but, you can't let yourself fall apart just because she left."

"What?" Dean's head flew up in a panic, "She left? What, did she call you? What did she say?" He jumped out of the couch, the robe becoming cape-like in his alarm.

Both Sam and Caleb just sat back on the couch in pure surprise, staring at the frantic pacing of the Guardian. "For fuck's sake, Caleb! What did she say? Did she say she was leaving me?"

Caleb's mouth gapped in shock, "Uh, no. I didn't talk to her."

Sam held up his hand, as if he was still a student in his class room, before he asked a question. "Uh, so, she didn't dump you?"

Dean twisted so fast, the droplet of water flung around the room as if he were a wet dog. "No! She didn't dump me. Why would she dump me? I'm awesome! Why did you say that she left?"

Slowly, Sam stood up and stepped in front of his big brother. "Well, you were drifting in the middle of the lake... you wouldn't talk to any of us. We figured that you told Juliet about the whole hunting thing... and assumed that she didn't take it very well."

Dean's eyes bulged as he got angry, shoving his brother away from his path. "Fuck, Sammy! I thought--I thought the worst! I thought that I screwed it up."

Caleb caught Sam before he could hit the coffee table, now seriously concerned for the mental welfare of his friend. He was making absolutely no sense. He straightened the younger man out, leading him to sit on the cushion beside him as they followed Dean's pacing with their eyes. It was like staring at a one man ping-pong match, darting from one side of the room to another in the space of a heartbeat.

He took in a deep breath, trying to wrap his head around what Dean was saying. "Alright, so I'm going to stop assuming right now. So, you did tell Juliet about us hunting? About the Brotherhood, right?"

Dean huffed, "Yeah, I told her." He started licking his lips and running his hands through his hair.

"And it went well? She didn't freak out?" Caleb prodded, his hand waving in the air, trying to get his friend to share the details they all seemed to be missing.

The questions caused Dean to slow down, "yeah, it did." A small smile appeared on his face. "Really well, in fact."

Sam gave him a smile in return, "Well, that's good, Dean. So, where is she?"

Dean became distracted again, and restarted pacing, "She's visiting her family. She'll be back this weekend." He took in a deep breath, then plopped down in the seat in between his best friend and brother, cushioning his head in his hands _again_.

Caleb patted his back, "I don't see what the problem is, Deuce. She's coming back..."

"Yeah," he muttered. "Well, that's sort of the problem. She's not going to come back alone."

A grin came to Sam's face, "Let me guess, you have to meet her parents?"

Dean lifted his face to his brother. He huffed, "You're a little on the slow side, Sammy. I've already met them." He rubbed his face tiredly, throwing his head back against the cushions as he stared at the fire. "I've also asked her to move in with me--permanently."

A slap against his shoulder jarred the emotional man, "Way to go, Deuce! I'm happy for you. So, what's the problem? 'Cause from where I'm sitting, you've got a woman who accepts you as a hunter, her parents like you, she's moving in with you, and the icing on the cake-- she's the best cook we've ever met. She even likes Sammy and he's just ugly."

Sam stuck his tongue out at him, as if he were five again. "You're such a jerk," he spit out before going back to his brother, "You know, Dean, Caleb actually has a point... what exactly happened?"

The Guardian just blinked for a few minutes. "Well, you know, I was really happy... I mean, _**really happy**_. Juliet and I, well, we surpassed my record with 'Gumby-girl' last weekend. And in our excitement, we forgot one _important_ thing."

The Knight and the Scholar's eyes got large as the suddenly _assumed_ what Dean was going to say. "I guess that it takes a few days before those tests come out accurately. She took, like four of them, this morning. They all turned pink. So, I guess we're going to have a baby."

It was on the tip of Caleb's tongue to call him a moron... to go off on him for the lack of protection, but he realized that having a child was his fear, not his best friend's. If anything, Dean wanted a family; even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. He'd seen the disappointment in Dean's eyes when Lisa had told him that Ben wasn't his son. Dean secretly told him that he wanted to leave a legacy--to have children. Perhaps this was God's way of giving the Guardian his heart's desire... of rewarding him.

Sam was in complete shock. His brother was going to be a father. "Oh my god, Dean. You're going to be a father." He looked at his brother, and swallowed. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I'm going to screw this up, Sammy. I don't know if I'm ready for this." Dean sounded breathless, his eyes filling and his chin wobbled in self-depreciation. They both saw how much he was beating himself up.

Caleb moved in front of him and gripped his neck, "Deuce, you'll be fine. I know you and I know that you are going to be the best father to that kid. Look at what you've gone with Sammy. You've been taking care of him since you've been four, man. He turned out good." Caleb smiled.

Sam jumped in too, lending his support. "Plus, don't forget that you have us. We'll help out anyway that we can. I mean, Caleb was our official nanny-- you can just draft him into the position again." He laughed at the glare that was shot his way at the last part, "And, remember, you and Juliet still have nine months to get ready. Think of it like a hunt--just do the research."

Dean rolled his eyes at his little brother, "I don't think it's that simple, Sammy."

"Well, think of it this way-- if Joshua can do it, you can too." Caleb grinned as the brothers looked at him with surprise. "I think that Josh and Carolyn wanted to keep it a secret for a little while longer, but Carolyn is going to have a baby--soon, I think."

"Wow. That's uh... a surprise. Why'd they keep it secret?" Dean wanted to know.

Caleb answered, "I think that she was having some problems with the pregnancy at first and didn't want to jinx it until she'd gotten through the majority of the second trimester. Esme and Mac were the only ones who knew about it. That's why Mac was on your case, Sam, on letting her take some time off..."

Sam huh'ed, "It makes sense now." He smiled, "So, your kid and Josh's kid can play together... they should be around the same age."

"My kid, huh?" Dean had some trouble saying it, but the thought brought a smile to his face. He started laughing, "I'm having a baby, Sammy. Juliet and I are having a kid...my kid. Wow."

Caleb jumped up and grabbed three beers from the fridge before sitting down and handing one to each of them. "Well, I'd say that this calls for a toast." He held up his beer bottle, "To fatherhood."

The glasses clinked together and they all sipped at their beer, each with their own thoughts and dreams for the future.

The End...

(Well, I may be talked into continuing... but, you have to review.)


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